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PUTNAM 


WHOSO   FINDETH 
A  WIFE 


J.  WESLEY  PIT*AM 


NEW  VORK 
THE  1UCAUI-VV  COMPANY 

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WHOSO  FINDETH  A  WIFE 


WHOSO   FINDETH 
A  WIFE 


BY 
J.  WESLEY  PUTNAM 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 
1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    BY  DEVIOUS  WAYS 9 

II    GREAT  EXPECTATIONS 23 

III  THE  LION  AND  THE  LAMB 30 

IV  THE  ENTERING  WEDGE     .     .     .....     .     38 

V  THREATENING    CLOUDS       .      .     .     .     ...     .     55 

VI    THE   BARGAIN 66 

VII    GIVING  AND  TAKING 78 

VIII  THE  CLOSED  DOOR       .     .     .     .     .     .     .     •     •     93 

IX  NOT  STRICTLY  ACCORDING  TO  PROGRAM     .      .     .112 

X  FACING  FACTS  .     .     .     .     ....     .     .     .  117 

XI    A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  EEAL 124 

XII    OUT  OF  THE  STAGNANT  HARBOR 134 

XIII  YOUTH  WILL  BE  SERVED  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .146 

XIV  ON  THE  FLOOD 154 

XV  A  HELPING  HAND  .     .     .     .     .     .    >     .     .     .177 

XVI    IN  THE  DARK  WATCHES 202 

XVII    THE   EENUNCIATION 207 

XVIII  HOMING  TOGETHER  .                                                .  224 


2137823 


WHOSO  FINDETH  A  WIFE 


WHOSO  FINDETH  A 
WIFE 

CHAPTER  I 

BY   DEVIOUS   WAYS 

I 

IT  was  four  oclock  when  Dunham 's  car  swerved 
off  the  Avenue  and  came  to  an  abrupt  stop  in 
front  of  a  house  in  Fifty-fifth  Street.  Ralph 
Dunham  stepped  out  briskly  and  slammed  the 
door  of  the  limousine  sharply  behind  him. 

1 '  Wait ! "  he  said  to  the  chauffeur.  And  then 
he  turned  and  climbed  the  short  flight  of  steps 
that  led  to  the  Ferris'  door.  A  moment  later 
he  had  thrown  off  his  fur-lined  ulster  and  sat 
expectantly  before  the  glowing  library-grate  of 
one  of  the  most  respectable  houses  in  New  York. 

Dunham  had  come  direct  from  his  downtown 
o 


office.  The  day's  work  was  finished.  By  turns 
he  had  schemed  and  fought  and  threatened  and 
cajoled.  The  same  hand  that  had  hammered 
the  desk  in  emphatic  gesture  in  front  of  one 
caller  had  patted  the  back  of  another  in  pro 
pitiating  friendship.  It  had  set  a  bold,  firm 
signature  to  some  scores  of  letters  which  car 
ried  messages  of  various  import,  some  pleasant 
and  some  of  exceedingly  ill  omen,  to  as  many 
men  whose  business  trails  crossed  Dunham's 
path.  And  out  of  the  never-ending  struggle  he 
had  emerged  as  unwearied,  strong  and  indomi 
table  as  the  day  when  a  dozen  years  before  he 
had  come  out  of  the  West,  that  vast  breeding 
place  of  giants,  and  thrown  himself  joyfully 
into  the  thick  of  the  financial  fray. 

Dunham's  glance  roved  appraisingly  about 
the  big  room.  He  appreciated  and  envied  the 
dignified  furnishings  of  the  place.  The  whole 
decorative  scheme  breathed  a  respectability, 
an  evidence  of  social  assurance,  that  the  best 
of  the  Fifth  Avenue  decorators  had  failed  to  im 
part  to  his  own  luxurious  bachelor  house.  A 


BY   DEVIOUS    WAYS  11 

less  astute  man  than  Dunham  would  have  told 
himself  in  this  connection  that  there  were  some 
things  money  could  not  buy.  But  as  it  hap 
pened,  Dunham  was  intent  upon  a  purchase  of 
this  very  commodity  that  he  lacked,  and  needed. 
In  fact)  his  presence  in  the  Ferris'  house  was 
due  to  his  determination  to  acquire  the,  one 
thing  that  the  metropolis  had  jealously  refused 
to  yield  up  to  him — unimpeachable  social  posi 
tion.  And  as  he  sat  there  waiting,  a  quiet  but 
insistent  force  that  would  not  be  denied,  he  was 
certain  that  he  had  made  no  mistake  in  the 
market-place.  The  wares  were  there.  And 
Dunham  knew  that  they  could  be  bought.  Well 
— he  had  the  price!  And  fortunately  for  the 
success  of  his  undertaking,  spiritual  considera 
tions  did  not  enter  into  his  scheme  of  life.  He 
did  not  doubt,  deep  within  his  consciousness, 
that  when  the  time  came  he  could  square  him 
self  with  the  Almighty.  Why  should  he?  He 
had  never  yet  known  failure. 

He  heard  his  name,  enunciated  in  a  woman's 
low-pitched,  cultivated  tones,  and  found  him- 


12    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

self  shaking  hands  with  Stephen  Ferris*  wife. 
Margaret  Ferris  looked  at  the  big,  dark  figure 
with  an  interest  which  she  took  no  pains  to 
conceal  as  the  two  stood  facing  each  other  for 
a  moment.  She  felt  the  brute  force  of  the  man. 
Even  his  hand-clasp,  careful  (not  gentle)  as  it 
was  of  her  long,  slim  fingers,  struck  her  as 
hiding  a  steely  strength  that  she  was  unac 
customed  to.  This  man  and  those  of  her  world 
were  made  of  different  stuff. 

"Mr.  Ferris  has  just  come  in,"  she  said. 
* '  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  come  upstairs  we 
can  talk  undisturbed  in  his  study."  And  Dun 
ham  followed  her  up  the  wide  staircase. 

ii 

As  they  entered  the  room  Stephen  Ferris 
rose  from  his  desk. 

' '  Glad  to  see  you,  Dunham, ' '  he  said.  * '  How 
are  you?" 

"Very  well,"  Dunham  answered.  "And 
you?" 

"Quite  fit,  thanks."    And  as  his  wife  sat 


BY   DEVIOUS   WAYS          13 

down  at  one  end  of  the  long  leather  davenport, 
Ferris  waved  Dunham  to  an  armchair.  He 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  looked  inquiringly 
at  his  guest.  A  striking  contrast  marked  the 
two  men.  Ferris,  slender,  narrow-shouldered, 
immaculately  dressed,  was  no  different  from  a 
hundred  of  his  kind.  An  unbroken  line  of  city- 
bred  men  before  him  had  bequeathed  to  him  an 
air  of  unstudied  ennui  that  was  marred  only 
by  a  few  lines  of  worry  that  stamped  them 
selves  indelibly  upon  his  features.  Fifty  years 
of  ease  had  not  fitted  him  to  face  impending 
disaster  with  the  resolve  to  conquer. 

Ealph  Dunham  knew  the  type.  Men  of 
Ferris  *  ilk  had  served  his  purpose  often 
enough.  He  noted  with  satisfaction  the  pile 
of  papers  that  lay  strewn  upon  his  host's  desk 
— bills,  unmistakably, — bills  unpaid  and  press 
ing,  the  ever-increasing  incubus  which  sooner 
or  later  fastens  itself  upon  the  luckless,  shrink 
ing  shoulders  of  the  world's  idlers.  Three  gen 
erations  from  shirt-sleeves  to  shirt-sleeves! 
Dunham  believed  in  the  old  adage  that  came  to 


14    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

his  mind.  His  mouth  set  grimly  as  he  recalled 
his  own  shirt-sleeve  days.  They  were  not  so  far 
back.  Well !  he  would  play  the  good  fairy  and 
step  in  and  avert  the  coatless  calamity  in 
Stephen  Ferris'  case.  He  would  put  fate  to 
rout. 

Meanwhile  Margaret  Ferris  waited.  It  was 
to  her  that  Dunham  spoke. 

''Mrs.  Ferris,  I  may  as  well  come  to  the 
point  at  once,"  he  began.  "I  suppose  your 
husband  has  told  you  of  our  conversation  yes 
terday,  at  the  Club?"  he  said  inquiringly. 

Margaret  Ferris  nodded  silently. 

"Yes,"  Dunham  continued.  "Well,  the  mat 
ter  is  quite  simple  to  explain,  then.  Mr. 
Ferris'  sale  of  his  Federal  Express  holdings 
was  what  suggested  this  step  to  me.  To  put 
the  case  plainly,  you  need  money.  Not  to-day, 
perhaps,  nor  to-morrow.  But  the  proceeds  of 
the  sale  of  this  stock  will  not  last  forever.  It 
is  just  staving  off  the  inevitable  when  one  be 
gins  to  live  upon  his  principal."  He  turned 
to  Ferris,  who  had  reddened  visibly  under  his 


BY   DEVIOUS    WAYS  15 

remarks.  "An  unpleasant  topic,  I  know," 
Dunham  continued.  ' '  But  the  contingency  must 
be  faced."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "It  is 
possible,  as  I  suggested  to  Mr.  Ferris,  that  I 
may  be  of  some  assistance  to  you." 

Margaret  Ferris  clasped  her  hands  nerv 
ously. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Dunham!"  she  exclaimed,  "what 
you  say  is  too  true.  I've  seen  it  coming  for 
three  years:  You  don't  know  how  I've  wor 
ried!  We've  tried  to  cut  down  our  expenses. 
But  do  what  we  will,  it's  no  use.  Whenever  we 
save  in  one  place,  some  unforseen  demand 
arises  and  more  than  counterbalances.  Steve 
has  thought  of  going  into  business.  But  you 
know  how  difficult  it  is  for  a  man  to  begin  work 
for  the  first  time  at  his  age.  His  father  got 
along  very  nicely  on  what  Grandfather  Ferris 
left  him.  But  everything  is  so  different  now! 
It  costs  so  frightfully  to  live!  It's  appalling 
the  way  the  bills  run  up." 

Ferris  regarded  his  wife  with  surprise.  He 
had  heard  all  this  often  enough,  in  private. 


16    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

But  for  Margaret  to  lay  bare  family  secrets  in 
this  fashion  was  disconcerting,  to  say  the  least. 

" There,  there!'*  he  broke  in.  "It's  not  so 
bad  as  that.  You  know  how  women  will  worry, 
Dunham.  It's  true,  to  be  sure,  that  we  poor 
rich  feel  the  pressure  of  the  cost  of  living. 
There  are  enough  others  in  the  same  boat  with 
us.  But  things  aren't  hopeless,  you  know. 
Now,  if  I  could  find  just  the  right  sort  of  busi 
ness  to  bring  in  a  few  thousand  a  year  extra, 
we'd  do  very  nicely.  I've  been  thinking  quite 
seriously  of  buying  a  seat  on  the  Exchange.  In 
fact,  I've  nearly  made  up  my  mind  to  do  it. 
However,  if  you've  anything  better  to  suggest, 
Dunham,  out  with  it!  Perhaps  you  have  in 
mind  a  partnership  of  some  sort?" 

Dunham's  face  scarcely  concealed  the  con 
tempt  which  a  man  of  his  stamp  always  feels 
for  the  weakling,  as  he  answered: 

"Yes,  something  of  the  sort !  A  family  part 
nership  is  what  I  have  in  mind. ' ' 

* '  Family !  I  don 't  quite  follow  you, ' '  Ferris 
exclaimed. 


BY   DEVIOUS    WAYS  17 

"I'll  explain,"  Ealph  Dunham  continued. 
"My  plan  involves  your  daughter." 

11  Elizabeth  1"  they  both  said  quickly. 

"Precisely.  Let  us  say,  for  the  sake  of  argu 
ment,  that  your  daughter  marries  me.  It 's  only 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  I  would  be  disposed 
to  do  the  right  thing  by  her  family." 

Dunham  watched  his  hearers  narrowly  as  a 
look  of  surprise  involuntarily  passed  between 
the  two. 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  sound  my  praises  as 
a  son-in-law.  I'll  only  say  that  your  daughter 
could  do  worse.  I'm  older  than  she — oh!  by 
eighteen  or  twenty  years,  I  daresay — I'm  forty 
next  month.  But  I'm  clean  as  men  go.  And 
if  there  are  a  good  many  unsmoothed  angles 
about  me  there  are  other  considerations  to  be 
thought  of." 

Ealph  Dunham  paused.  That  his  proposal 
carried  something  of  a  shock  he  did  not  doubt. 
But  he  was  accustomed  to  upsetting  people's 
equanimity. 

Margaret  Ferris  sat  quite  still.    Her  white 


18    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

hands  clutched  the  arm  of  the  seat  and  her 
strained,  eager  face  was  eloquent  of  mingled 
doubt  and  hope.  Ferris  began  to  pace  the 
room.  And  he  was  speaking  faster  than  was 
his  wont. 

"This  is  an  astounding  suggestion,"  he  was 
saying.  "I'm  not  sure  that  we  ought  to  listen 
to  you." 

.  Dunham  noted  with  satisfaction  that  Ferris' 
eyes  avoided  his  own.  He  knew  the  signs  of 
tempted  and  wavering  humanity. 

"Do  you  know  the  girl  at  all?"  Ferris  asked 
abruptly. 

"Very  slightly,"  Dunham  told  him.  "Just 
a  howdy-do  kind  of  acquaintance.  She  seems 
a  shy  sort.  Only  been  out  a  short  time,  hasn't 
she?" 

"Yes,"  Ferris  replied. 

"Not  two  years,"  his  wife  added. 

"She  may  have  other  ideas  of  her  own," 
Ferris  said.  ' '  Of  course  she 's  to  have  her  own 
way.  We  wouldn't  think  of  influencing  her  in 
such  a  matter." 


BY   DEVIOUS   WAYS          19 

"Of  course  not,"  Dunham  said.  "But  she's 
bound  to  marry  some  day,  and  why  not  me  as 
well  as  anyone?  And  why  not  a  little  sooner 
as  well  as  a  little  later?  I  wouldn't  dream  of 
asking  you  to  insist  upon  your  daughter's 
marriage  to  me  if  it  were  distasteful  to 
her." 

Margaret  Ferris  was  silent.  What  mingled 
waves  of  emotion  were  surging  within  her  she 
alone  knew.  But  Dunham  felt  that  her  silence 
did  not  auger  ill  for  his  cause.  It  was  a  mo 
ment  that  tried  even  his  well  governed  nerves. 
But  he  felt  that  he  must  press  home  his  point 
before  he  left  that  room. 

"Suppose  you  think  the  question  over,"  he 
said  suavely.  "There  isn't  any  special  hurry, 
you  know."  And  as  he  spoke  his  eyes  sought 
the  tell-tale  varicolored  heap  of  tradesmen's 
bills  upon  the  desk.  He  knew  that  there  lay 
the  goad  which  must  prick  the  couple  on  to  a 
decision.  "Perhaps  it's  just  as  well  that  we 
understand  one  another,  however.  Let  me  put 
the  case  clearly.  Give  me  your  consent  to  win 


20    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

your  daughter,  and  if  I  succeed  I'll  pay  these 
debts — all  of  'em" — and  he  waved  a  careless 
hand  toward  the  desk — "and  settle  a  million 
dollars  on  you." 

From  Margaret  Ferris'  lips  came  a  sudden 
inarticulate  sound.  Surprise,  joy,  hope,  fear 
— it  was  impossible  for  Dunham  to  fathom  that 
throaty  sob.  He  turned  to  Ferris,  who  had 
stopped  dead  in  his  tracks  and  now  stood  fac 
ing  him,  with  his  eyes  staring  and  his  mouth 
foolishly  opening  and  shutting.  But  his  loose 
lips  framed  no  words. 

Dunham  rose.  "Think  it  over,"  he  said. 
"And  meantime  if  you've  no  objection  I'd  like 
to  see  a  little  more  of  Miss  Elizabeth.  Under 
stand, — I  won't  say  anything  to  her  without 
hearing  from  you.  But  until  you  decide  there 
can  be  no  harm  in  such  attentions  as  I  may  pay 
her." 

"Oh!  no  harm  at  all!"  Ferris  hastened  to 
answer,  recovering  from  his  sudden  seizure. 
"Of  course  your  suggestion  is — er — just  a  bit 
unusual,  you  know.  And  it  has  taken  us  so 


BY   DEVIOUS    WAYS  21 

completely  by  surprise  that  we  shall  have  to 
give  ourselves  a  little  time  to  decide." 

"Naturally,"  Dunham  answered.  "And 
now  that  we  understand  one  another  I  must  be 
on  my  way."  He  turned  to  take  Mrs.  Ferris' 
hand,  when  a  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  his 
adieu.  Stephen  and  Margaret  Ferris  started 
guiltily. 

"Come  in!"  Ferris  called.  And  a  girl  en 
tered. 

"Oh!  it's  you,  Elizabeth,"  Margaret  said. 
"You  know  Mr.  Dunham — " 

"To  be  sure,"  Elizabeth  Ferris  answered 
evenly.  Dunham  took  a  small,  well-gloved  hand 
in  his  and  murmured  his  pleasure. 

"Jane  said  she  thought  I'd  find  you  in  Dad 
dy's  den,"  she  told  her  mother.  "I  promised 
to  drop  in  at  Ann  Jordan's  tea.  But  I'll  be 
back  in  plenty  of  time  to  go  to  the  Hartleys  * 
dinner  with  you." 

"Very  well,  child,"  her  mother  said. 
' '  Good-by,  Mr.  Dunham !  So  glad  to  have  seen 
you  again ! ' 


22    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

m 

Dunham  turned  to  Elizabeth  Ferris. 

"May  I  give  you  a  lift  in  my  car?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!  thank  you,  I  was  going  to  walk.  It's 
not  far  you  know — Eightieth  Street."  She 
made  a  bewitching  picture,  in  her  brown  suit 
and  sables,  with  little  wisps  of  rebellious  chest 
nut  hair  escaping  beneath  the  close-fitting  edges 
of  her  tailored  hat.  Dunham  looked  at  her 
with  immense  approval. 

"My  car's  just  spoiling  for  exercise,"  he 
pleaded. 

"Well  then,  I'll  walk  back.  Good-by,  dear 
people — "  and  she  smiled  brightly  at  her  father 
and  mother. 

So  they  went  away  on  that  winter  evening. 
And  into  the  stream  of  cars  that  rolled  majes 
tically  up  Fifth  Avenue  Dunham's  chauffeur 
skillfully  piloted  them.  And  the  Lion  and  the 
Lamb  were  together  in  the  blustering  March 
twilight. 


CHAPTER  II 

GEEAT   EXPECTATIONS 

I 

THE  sound  of  the  outer  door  shutting  behind 
those  two  departing  ones  sounded  dully  in  the 
ears  of  Stephen  Ferris  and  his  wife.  Now  that 
Dunham  had  gone,  and  the  last  sign  of  his  pres 
ence  had  vanished  with  the  echo  of  the  closing 
door,  the  whole  interview  seemed  to  them  both 
but  some  fantastic  dream.  Ferris  sank  into 
the  chair  behind  the  desk  and  looked  wearily 
at  the  appalling  testimonials  of  disaster  that 
lay  before  him. 

Margaret  still  sat  leaning  against  the  arm  of 
the  leather  sofa,  her  chin  resting  upon  both 
hands. 

ii 

"Well!"  Stephen  said  at  last.  "What  do 
you  think  of  it?" 

23 


24    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

"Of  him?"  she  countered. 

"Yes— what  of  him?" 

"Not  exactly  the  sort  of  son-in-law  I'd  have 
picked  out !  Still,  he  might  be  worse.  There 's 
this  to  say  in  his  favor,  Steve.  He  '11  never  be 
any  worse  than  he  is  now.  If  he  were  younger, 
oh!  ten  years  younger — his  ultimate  develop 
ment  might  still  be  problematical.  But  he's 
mature.  His  personality,  and  his  habits — 
mental  and  moral — are  fixed  for  life." 

"Oh!  damn  his  habits!  Men  are  all  alike, 
underneath.  Have  you  ever  seen  him  eat  soup, 
now?  The  chap  gets  on  very  well  when  he  sits 
down  and  talks.  But  what's  he  like,  I  wonder, 
to — well,  to  live  with?  To  take  into  one's  fam 
ily?" 

"Don't  worry  about  that  sort  of  thing,  Steve. 
Table  manners  are  at  a  discount  nowadays. 
They're  the  least  valuable  asset  a  man  can 
have.  I've  often  wished  that  your  family  had 
drilled  less  refinement  into  you — paid  not  so 
much  attention  to  how  gracefully  you  could  live 
on  money  somebody  else  made,  and  put  some 


GREAT    EXPECTATIONS      25 

effort  on  teaching  you  how  to  earn  some  your 
self." 

Ferris  looked  wearily  at  his  wife.  He  had 
often  heard  such  complaints  from  her  during 
the  past  three  years.  And  he  had  long  since 
learned  the  futility  of  attempting  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  dissatisfaction  that  she  poured  upon 
him  with  unvarying  regularity. 

"What  about  Elizabeth?"  he  ventured,  when 
she  had  finished.  "Do  you  think  she  will  ever 
agree  to  marry  Dunham?" 

"Why  not?"  she  answered  sharply.  "What 
else  would  she  do?  Marry  some  young  fool  in 
her  own  set  who's  had  the  same  sort  of  up 
bringing  that  her  father's  had?  Not  if  I  can 
help  it,  Steve!  This  is  a  brilliant  match  for 
her.  It  isn't  every  girl  who  has  such  a  chance. 
They're  as  few — opportunities  like  this — as  are 
fortunes  the  size  of  Ealph  Dunham's.  Just 
how  much  is  he  worth,  Steve?" 

Ferris  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Nobody  knows,"  he  said.  "I  doubt  if  the 
man  knows  himself.  You  hear  all  sorts  of  sto- 


26    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

ries.  Sixty — seventy  millions, — that's  what 
some  think.  But  suppose  he's  only  worth  half 
that  ...  it's  enough.  More  than  enough!" 

Hard  lines  showed  about  Margaret  Ferris' 
mouth.  A  score  of  minute  wrinkles,  those  tell 
tale  marks  of  the  workings  of  the  mind  within, 
bespoke  worry,  avarice,  scheming. 

" A  million  dollars!"  she  said,  slowly.  "It's 
nothing  to  a  man  like  him.  Little  enough,  I 
should  say,  in  exchange  for  the  position  that 
Elizabeth  would  bring  him !  Many  a  man  has 
spent  more  than  that,  vainly  too,  in  the  effort 
to  display  his  wife's  jewels  in  coveted  places." 

Stephen  Ferris  laughed.  It  was  not  a  pleas 
ant  sound, — coming  from  his  contemptuous, 
sneering  lips. 

"What  do  you  want!"  he  asked  her.  "I 
might  have  known  you  wouldn't  be  satisfied.  I 
suppose  you  think  Dunham  ought  to  make  over 
half  his  holdings.  If  you  want  to  know  what 
I  think, — it's  a  damned  generous  offer.  A  mil 
lion  dollars  to  be  married!  Not  many  men 
would  be  willing  to  pay  that.  If  it  were  the 


GREAT   EXPECTATIONS      27 

other  way,  now — a  million  to  get  unmarried! 
.  .  .  well,  I  could  appreciate  that  better." 

Margaret  Ferris  paid  no  attention  to  her 
husband's  sally. 

"No,  it's  none  too  much.  But  I  suppose 
beggars  can't  be  choosers.  And  that's  what 
we're  fast  becoming — beggars!  That's  what 
we'll  be  soon  enough  if  Elizabeth  plays  the 
fool." 

"You'll  have  to  talk  to  her,  Margaret," 
Ferris  advised.  "You'll  know  how  to  do  it 
better  than  I.  If  this  thing  slips  up  the  Lord 
knows  what  we'll  do.  With  the  debts  paid  and 
a  clean  million  to  work  with,  I'll  go  down  on 
the  Street  and  double  it  in  no  time. ' ' 

Mrs.  Ferris  sat  suddenly  bolt  upright  and 
faced  her  husband. 

"Where  do  I  come  in,  pray?"  she  asked. 
"You  flatter  yourself,  Steve,  if  you  think  you 
can  grab  all  that  money  for  yourself.  If  you 
had  it  you  are  just  silly  enough  to  throw  it 
away  inside  of  a  year. "  She  paused  a  moment, 
as  if  to  let  her  words  prepare  him  for  what  was 


28    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

coming.  "Half  of  it's  to  be  mine,  Steve,"  she 
said  firmly.  "Mine  to  do  with  as  I  like!" 

Ferris  glared  at  her. 

"Don't  be  unreasonable,"  he  said.  "Who 
brought  this  fellow  here,  anyhow?  You  don't 
suppose  I'm  a  child,  do  you,  to  be  cheated  out 
of  what  rightfully  belongs  to  me?  I  expected 
to  do  something  for  you,  naturally.  But  I 
might  have  known  you  wouldn't  be  satisfied 
with  a  square  deal.  It's  a  wonder  you  don't 
want  it  all." 

"Only  my  share,  Steve!"  she  replied. 
"You  played  with  the  money  my  father  left  me, 
and  where  is  it  now?  And  you  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  your  own  fortune.  Now  I  'm  go 
ing  to  manage  for  myself. ' ' 

Ferris  knew  that  her  mind  was  made  up. 

"As  you  wish,"  he  said,  sourly,  with  little 
relish  for  the  resignation  that  he  knew  must 
be  his  lot.  "What's  the  use,  after  all,  of 
quarreling  over  what  we  haven't  got?" 

Margaret  Ferris  paused,  as  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  doorknob. 


GREAT    EXPECTATIONS      29 

"No,  Steve,"  she  said.  "We  haven't  got 
it  now.  But  it  won't  be  my  fault  if  we  don't  get 
it.  Elizabeth  simply  has  to  marry  soon.  If 
she  didn't  it  wouldn't  be  long  before  we'd  be 
unable  to  do  anything  for  her  at  all.  And  what 
chance  has  a  girl  without  gowns,  and  a  family 
that  can  entertain  for  her  ?  As  it  is,  things  are 
growing  shabby  about  the  house.  And  we 
haven't  a  single  decent  car  left.  And  how 
we're  to  get  another  goodness  knows.  The 
limousine  has  been  out  of  commission  for  a 
week  and  Williams  says  he  simply  can't  patch 
it  together  much  longer.  It's  now  or  never! 
This  man  Dunham  is  a  special  dispensation  of 
Providence  sent  for  the  relief  of  the  pious. 
He's  manna,  Steve, — that's  what  he  is!" 

"Well,  mind  you  don't  crowd  him  too  quickly 
down  Eliabeth's  throat." 

"Trust  me,  Steve." 

"I  will  ...  if  I  must,"  Stephen  Ferris 
added,  as  his  wife  closed  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  LION   AND   THE   LAMB 
I 

WHILE  her  father  and  mother  were  haggling 
over  the  division  of  the  spoils,  the  price  of  her 
purchase,  Elizabeth  was  speeding  gaily  uptown 
in  Dunham's  car.  She  had  met  the  man  a  few 
times  at  balls  and  dinners.  But  his  occasional 
presence  in  her  set  was  only  of  recent  date. 
Though  for  years  he  had  loomed  large  in  the 
newspapers,  it  was  rather  in  the  fashionable 
restaurants,  at  the  Opera  and  the  Horse  Show, 
that  Dunham  had  become  a  familiar  figure.  In 
the  innermost  sanctified  shrines  of  the  old  New 
York  families  he  had  penetrated  only  of  late, 
and  on  few  occasions.  Elizabeth  wondered 
mildly  what  could  have  brought  him  to  her 
father's  study.  And  then  she  promptly  for- 

30 


LION    AND    LAMB  31 

got  the  matter.    The  present  was  sufficiently 
diverting. 

Dunham  was  not  a  great  talker.  Where 
business  was  not  concerned  he  never  had  much 
to  say.  But  now  and  then  he  put  in  a  word 
agreeably  enough.  In  his  thoughts  there  was 
much  that  would  have  astonished  the  pretty 
chatting  creature  at  his  side.  He  looked  down 
at  the  soft  whiteness  of  her  cheek,  ivory-like 
in  the  dusk  of  early  evening,  and  there  came 
over  him  a  sudden  desire  to  clasp  her  roughly 
in  his  arms.  It  was  not  love.  Affection  was 
something  that  Ealph  Dunham  had  had  no  time 
for.  But  here  was  a  woman  who  would  some 
day  be  his — his  to  do  with  as  he  liked.  He  had 
no  doubt  of  the  outcome  of  his  suit.  The  power 
of  money  was  an  influence  he  had  reason  to  be 
lieve  in.  Would  she  shrink  from  him  when  the 
time  came?  He  stretched  out  a  hand  and  un 
seen  by  her  touched  the  rich  stuff  of  her  suit; 
and  then  quickly  drew  away,  with  every  nerve 
strung  taut.  He  must  not  be  hasty,  he  re 
flected. 


32     WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

They  were  nearing  the  Plaza,  and  Dunham 
said — 

"You've  time  for  a  spin  through  the  Park, 
haven't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  Mr.  Dunham,"  the  girl  answered. 
The  suggestion  surprised  her.  She  had  not  re 
garded  Dunham  as  a  contemporary  of  hers — 
but  rather  of  her  parents.  His  age  was  obvi 
ously  nearer  theirs  than  her  own.  His  offering 
her  a  lift  in  his  car  had  been  only  common 
courtesy.  But  to  take  her  for  a  ride  in  the 
Park,  out  of  his  way,  and  hers  too,  suddenly 
gave  ground  for  a  different  construction  of 
their  relations. 

Elizabeth  Ferris,  city-bred  as  she  was  and 
accustomed  to  such  attentions  from  men  as 
come  naturally  to  an  attractive  girl  of  her  class, 
was  still  unscorched  by  the  flame  of  passion. 
There  was  something  about  her — a  certain  un 
mistakable  virginal  quality,  that  had  made  men 
careful  in  their  treatment  of  her.  She  was  the 
sort  of  girl  whom  no  dancing  partner,  how 
ever  voluptuous,  would  dare  clasp  closely. 


LION   AND   LAMB  33 

Such  maidens  seem  to  possess  some  magic 
charm  that  enables  them  to  move  through  life 
uncontaminated  by  unwholesome  influences. 
Many  girls  who  had  made  their  debuts  in  the 
same  season  as  she  were  already  adepts  at  the 
game  of  hearts.  Their  eyes  habitually  shot  a 
challenge  out  at  every  man  they  met,  and  they 
were  ready  to  go  far  in  the  dangerous  fields  of 
sweet  adventure. 

But  Elizabeth  Ferris  was  made  of  finer  clay. 
Dunham  was  sensible  of  this  quality  in  his 
companion.  Not  that  he  had  met  it  frequently. 
Indeed,  the  women  he  had  known  intimately 
were  of  a  far  different  stamp.  Since  he  had 
lived  in  the  East  he  had  had  little  time  for 
feminine  society.  But  in  his  younger  days  in 
the  West,  in  mining  camps  and  boom  towns,  he 
had  known  women.  Then  he  had  danced  and 
drunk  with  the  carelessness  of  unfettered  youth. 
One  girl  had  been  no  different  from  all  her 
adventurous  sisters.  The  same  treatment  an 
swered  for  all.  And  Dunham  had  gone  on  his 
migratory  way  from  one  town  to  another  in 


34    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

blissful  ignorance  of  the  infinite  variety  of  the 
gentler  sex.  Even  in  those  days  he  had  been 
a  masterful  man.  Men  had  feared  and  hated 
him.  But  women  had  feared  and  loved  him. 
And  all  the  time  he  had  fought  his  way  steadily 
upward  with  scant  regard  for  whosoever  served 
his  purpose  either  for  play  or  profit,  for  gayety 
or  gain. 

But  Dunham  had  had  reason  enough  to  real 
ize  that  he  now  lived  in  an  entirely  different 
world.  The  ways  of  the  New  Yorker  were  not 
his  ways.  He  soon  discovered  that  the  men 
who  did  business  with  him  in  the  daytime  did 
not  idle  with  him  at  nighttime;  that  though  he 
lunched  with  Harrington  and  Dumont  and 
Battersby  and  others  of  their  class,  he  never 
dined  with  them.  And  when  some  chance  meet 
ing  brought  him  into  fleeting  contact  with  these 

men  when  they  had  their  women  folk  with  them 
\ 

introductions  were  likely  to  be  conspicuous  by 
their  absence.  Occasionally,  as  it  now  and  then 
happened,  he  was  presented  to  dowager  or 
daughter.  But  the  atmosphere  was  never  con- 


LION    AND    LAMB  35 

ducive  to  much  informality.  Conversation 
generally  languished.  Probably,  he  reflected, 
under  their  skins  those  haughty  creatures  were 
the  same  as  Judy  O'Grady.  But  superficially 
they  were  as  different  as  another  sex. 

As  the  door  to  the  social  world  swung  slowly 
wider  before  him,  Dunham  had  advanced  with 
cautious  tread.  He  knew  how  to  handle  the 
men.  But  the  women!  Ah!  they  were  still 
a  riddle  unsolved. 

Ealph  Dunham  smiled  slightly  as  he  glanced 
at  the  frail  little  bird  caught  in  the  cage  beside 
him.  Some  day  he  would  not  have  to  be  so 
circumspect!  But  now  he  fell  back  upon  such 
small-talk  as  he  could  muster.  He  had  seen 
her  at  the  theater  the  night  before;  and  they 
criticized  the  play.  Fortunately  it  was  a  drama 
that  he  could  discuss  with  her. 

s 

They  had  been  spinning  along  close  to  the 
speed  limit  with  the  engine  purring  evenly, 
fairly  eating  up  the  Park  road.  Meanwhile, 
in  Elizabeth  Ferris'  pretty  head  an  estimate 
of  the  man  beside  her  took  shape.  He  was 


36    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

interesting — yes;  somewhat  more  serious- 
minded  than  most  of  the  men  she  knew.  But 
in  spite  of  his  having  his  life  filled  with  mines 
and  railroads  and  banks,  he  seemed  not  oblivi 
ous  to  the  gayer  side  of  life.  That  such  a  wiz 
ard  of  finance  should  so  unbend  as  to  spend  a 
half -hour  with  a  girl  in  a  motor-car,  and  could 
actually  laugh  and  joke  with  her,  struck  her  as 
an  amazing  thing.  Her  previous  impressions 
of  Dunham  had  been  based  in  a  great  measure 
upon  the  conception  the  cartoonists  had  unani 
mously  settled  upon.  Those  enterprising  art 
ists  were  fond  of  depicting  Dunham  as  a 
grim-visaged  figure,  clad  in  mail,  with  the  dollar- 
mark  blazoned  big  upon  his  shield,  who  stood 
knee-deep  in  financial  carnage  and  mowed  his 
way  through  throngs  of  hapless  ruined 
wretches. 

But  now  she  had  to  revise  her  opinion  of  the 
man.  He  had  proved  that  he  was  not  altogether 
the  ogre  that  he  had  been  represented.  It  is 
true,  she  was  conscious  of  a  certain  quality  of 
steely  strength  about  Dunham;  but  he  was  far 


LION   AND   LAMB  37 

from  being  the  personification  of  brute  force 
and  savage  cunning  that  filled  the  mind's  eye 
of  the  public. 

n 

" Really,  my  dear,  he's  far  from  impossible," 
Elizabeth  said  to  her  friend  Ann  Jordan,  as  she 
recounted  her  adventure  over  tea  and  English 
muffins.  "Different  from  the  men  we  know,  of 
course,  but  not  at  all  the  wild  and  wooly  person 
you'd  think  him  from  reading  the  newspapers." 

Such  were  Elizabeth  Ferris '  first  impressions 
of  a  man  who  was  to  play  no  insignificant  part 
in  the  shaping  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   ENTEBIJSTG   WEDGE 

I 

A  MONTH  had  elapsed  since  Dunham's  proposal 
to  Stephen  and  Margaret,  and  during  that  time 
the  financier  had  paid  Elizabeth  marked  atten 
tion.  He  had  been  present  at  more  social  func 
tions  than  it  had  been  his  custom  to  attend. 
First  there  had  been  a  dinner-dance  given  by 
the  Ferrises,  to  which  Dunham  had  been  in 
vited.  He  had  devoted  much  of  his  time  to 
Elizabeth  upon  that  occasion.  And  following 
fast  upon  the  Ferris'  stamp  of  social  approval 
there  had  descended  upon  Dunham  a  shower 
of  invitations  such  as  had  never  blessed  him 
before.  He  smiled  each  morning  as  he  noted 
the  altered  character  of  his  mail.  Already,  he 
congratulated  himself,  his  overtures  were  bear- 

38 


THE   ENTERING   WEDGE    39 

ing  fruit.  He  had  made  no  mistake  in  his  esti 
mate  of  the  situation. 

Every  night  found  Dunham  playing  his  new 
role  of  society-man.  He  even  learned  the  lat 
est  dancing  steps — not  being  the  sort  to  stand 
by  and  look  idly  upon  action  of  any  kind.  Fur 
thermore,  it  did  not  suit  his  purpose  to  see 
Elizabeth  Ferris  borne  off  upon  the  arm  of 
every  empty-faced  youth  who  knew  how  to 
move  his  feet  in  time  to  music. 

So  Dunham  had  plunged  with  characteristic 
vigor  into  the  business  in  hand — the  business 
of  getting  married.  He  danced  with  Elizabeth, 
and  talked  to  her,  and  sent  her  flowers,  and 
books,  and  bon-bons.  And  he  called  at  the 
Ferris '  house  at  every  opportunity.  It  was  not 
surprising  that  his  name  and  Elizabeth's  soon 
became  coupled  in  the  mouths  of  the  gossips. 

n 

Margaret  Ferris  was  not  slow  in  hearing  the 
stories  that  were  being  circulated — the  rumors 
of  her  daughter's  engagement  to  the  wealthiest 


40    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

bachelor  in  New  York.  But  as  yet  she  had  said 
nothing  to  Elizabeth.  It  was  evident  that  the 
affair  must  soon  come  to  a  crisis — so  vigorous 
was  Dunham's  suit.  Margaret  was  not  sur 
prised,  therefore,  when  Elizabeth  said  to  her 
one  day — 

"Oh,  Mother!  What  do  you  think  I  heard 
to-day?  It  was  something  about  Mr.  Dunham 
and  me!  We're  engaged — at  least  that's  what 
Emily  Morton  told  me  this  afternoon.  She 
says  she's  heard  it  several  times.  Isn't  it 
ridiculous  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Ferris  smiled  at  her  daugher's  excite 
ment. 

"Bidiculous?"  she  repeated,  as  if  weighing 
the  word.  "Beally,  Elizabeth,  why  not  be 
more  optimistic  and  say — premature?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  Elizabeth  asked 
in  astonishment. 

"Just  what  I  say,  my  dear,"  her  mother  re 
plied.  "People  wouldn't  be  saying  such  a 
thing  unless  there  were  some  likelihood  of  its 


THE   ENTERING   WEDGE    41 

really  happening.  The  public,  you  see,  always 
has  its  eyes  open." 

"But  Mr.  Dunham  hasn't  the  least  idea  of 
marrying  me,  Mother,  I'm  sure.  I  hope  he 
won't  hear  such  an  embarrassing  story. " 

"Why  do  you  think  he  hasn't  any  idea  of  pro 
posing,  Elizabeth?"  Mrs.  Ferris  asked.  "You 
are  young,  my  dear.  When  you  are  older  you 
will  learn  that  any  man  may  be  suspected  of 
anything!" 

"Absurd,  Mother!  Mr.  Dunham  has  simply 
been  nice  to  me  because  he  knows  you  and 
Father.  I'm  sure  I'm  the  last  girl  he'd  ever 
think  of  in  that  way." 

Margaret  Ferris  looked  at  her  daugher  nar 
rowly.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  realize,  some 
times,  that  anybody  could  be  so  unsophisticated 
as  Elizabeth.  But  she  could  remember,  though 
it  cost  her  some  effort,  that  there  had  been  a 
time  when  she  had  believed  that  people  mar 
ried  for  love. 

"Why  has  Dunham  been  so  attentive  to  you 


42    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

lately!"  she  asked.  "Do  you  imagine  that  it 
is  because  he  is  so  fond  of  your  father  or  me 
that  he  spends  so  much  of  his  time  with  you? 
My  dear  child — don't  be  ridiculous!  You're 
surely  old  enough  to  know  that  when  a  man 
pays  marked  attention  to  a  woman  he  always 
has  some  definite  end  in  view.  In  your  case 
that  end,  so  far  as  Dunham  is  concerned,  can 
be  nothing  more  or  less  than — marriage." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  mother  in  amazement. 
She  was  astounded  at  such  a  construction  of 
Dunham's  gallantries. 

"How  can  you  imagine  such  a  thing!"  she 
cried. 

"How  can  you  fail  to  know  it!"  her  mother 
retorted. 

"He  hasn't  breathed  a  word  to  me — not  one 
syllable — that  could  be  so  construed,"  Eliza 
beth  answered. 

"There's  plenty  of  time,"  was  her  mother's 
confident  comment. 

"Even  if  it  were  so — that  he  had  any  such 


THE    ENTERING   WEDGE     43 

intention  as  proposing  to  me — of  course  it 
would  be  out  of  the  question." 

"How  'out  of  the  question?'  "  Margaret 
asked  calmly. 

"Why — his  age!"  Elizabeth  exclaimed. 
"How  could  I  marry  a  man  old  enough  to  be 
my  father?" 

"It's  a  much  wiser  thing  for  a  girl  to  do  to 
marry  a  man  older  than  she  is  than  to  tie  her 
self  for  life  to  a  selfish  boy,"  Mrs.  Ferris  ob 
served. 

"Anyhow,  I  don't  care  for  Mr.  Dunham,"  the 
girl  declared. 

"My  dear — don't  be  silly,"  her  mother  said. 
"It  isn't  so  much  a  question  of  caring  that 
should  decide  one  nowadays,  when  a  man  pro 
poses.  It's  all  very  well  for  the  heroine  of 
some  romantic  novel  to  rant  about  love;  but 
we  must  not  forget  that  this  is  a  practical  age. 
There  are  many  things  one  has  to  consider. 
And  most  important  of  all  is  money.  There's 
no  real  happiness  anywhere  without  it — for 


44    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

there's  too  much  worry,  if  not  actual  hardship, 
for  people  who  can't  make  both  ends  meet. 
Since  you  have  brought  up  the  question,  I  tell 
you  these  things  that  you  ought  to  know.  Dun 
ham  means  to  marry  you — there's  no  doubt  at 
all  of  his  intentions. ' ' 

Elizabeth  turned  her  frightened  eyes  upon 
her  mother. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!"  she  begged.  "He- 
he  wouldn't  ask  me — unless  he  thought  I  liked 
him  a  great  deal ;  and  I  've  never  given  him  any 
reason  to  think  that." 

"My  child — your  own  feelings  are  probably 
the  last  thing  he  would  consider.  Whether  you 
liked  him,  I  mean.  It's  not  the  way  of  a  man 
— least  of  all  a  man  like  Dunham — to  let  a  pro 
posal  of  marriage  hinge  upon  the  lady's  atti 
tude.  It's  of  themselves  that  men  think.  They 
see  something  they  want  and  they  go  after  it. 
Dunham  wants  to  marry  you  and  it's  inevitable 
that  he  will  propose." 

"He  mustn't — oh!  he  mustn't  do  that! 
Can't  you  go  to  him  and  tell  him  that  I  don't 


THE    ENTERING   WEDGE    45 

want  to  be  married?  Please,  Mother!  Tell 
him  I  didn't  understand.  Please  don't  let  him 
ask  me ! " 

Elizabeth  was  on  the  verge  of  tears  now.  Be 
fore  her  rose  a  mental  image  of  Ealph  Dunham 
— persistent,  assertive,  strong,  and  perhaps 
cruel.  She  shrank  from  the  prospect  of  deny 
ing  him  anything.  She  suddenly  felt  weak  and 
defenseless. 

" Don't  cry  and  make  a  fuss  over  this,"  Mar 
garet  said  sharply.  ' '  It  would  make  me  miser 
able,  and  you  too,  and  it  wouldn't  do  any  good 
at  all.  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Elizabeth,  and 
if  you  are  sensible  and  marry  Dunham  I'm  sure 
you  will  be.  He  admires  you  very  much,  and 
he  will  treat  you  like  a  queen. ' ' 

"But  I  can't  marry  him,  Mother  I  Don't 
you  understand?  He's  one  of  the  last  men  I 
know  that  I'd  choose  for  a  husband." 

*  *  My  dear  girl,  you  haven 't  any  choice.  When 
a  man  as  rich  as  Dunham  asks  a  girl  to  marry 
him  there  is  no  question  of  refusal  or  accept 
ance,  believe  me.  Naturally,  he  is  not  a  man 


46    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

to  make  a  very  good  impression  at  first  upon  so 
young  a  girl  as  you  are.  But  all  that  would 
come  right  in  a  little  time.  Eeally,  my  dear, 
you're  enormously  lucky — quite  the  most  for 
tunate  girl  I  know  of." 

" Lucky!"  Elizabeth  repeated.  "I'm  sure 
I  don't  understand  you  at  all.  I  don't  want  to 
marry  Mr.  Dunham.  I — I'm  not  ready — to 
marry — anyone,"  she  stammered.  "I've  never 
thought  much  about  marriage,  you  see.  It  all 
seemed  so  far  off,  always.  I  thought  I'd  have 
years  to  myself,  before  that." 

"You're  a  queer  child,"  her  mother  told  her. 
"Dreamy,  impractical — you  get  those  qualities 
from  your  father.  He  has  always  found  it 
difficult  to  accept  the  world  as  it  is,  and  trim 
his  sails  accordingly.  I  hope  you're  not  going 
to  disappoint  me  this  time.  Be  a  sensible  girl. 
Do  you  know — there'll  be  thousands  of  women 
who  will  envy  you?  There  are  thousands  of 
them  who  would  ask  nothing  better  on  earth — 
or  in  heaven  either — than  to  be  Dunham's 
wife. ' ' 


THE    ENTERING   WEDGE    47 

"I  suppose  they  want  money,  don't  they?" 
Elizabeth  said. 

' '  Hm. — money,  no  doubt, ' '  her  practical  mother 
answered.  "But  you  don't  seem  to  realize  that 
money  means  power.  Think  what  you  could 
do  with  such  means  as  Dunham  will  provide  his 
wife  with!  You're  interested  in  charities,  for 
instance.  Now  about  all  you  can  do  is  to  take 
part  in  tableaux  at  the  Plaza,  or  the  Ritz,  which 
somebody  else  organizes.  Or  you  go  over  to 
the  East  Side  and  talk  with  the  settlement 
workers.  But  with  millions  at  your  disposal, 
just  think  of  the  good  you  could  do,  my  dear! 
You  could  give  beds  to  hospitals — you  could 
even  build  hospitals  themselves!  There's  no 
end  to  the  charities  you  could  finance." 

As  Elizabeth  listened  to  her  mother's  en 
thusiastic  recital  her  color  deepened  and  in 
her  eyes  glowed  a  light  which  had  not  appeared 
in  them  before  during  the  course  of  their  talk. 

"I'd  never  thought  of  that,"  she  said  slowly. 
"And  is  that  why  so  many  other  girls  would 
be  so  glad  to  marry  Mr.  Dunham?" 


48    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

"Some  of  them, — yes,  no  doubt,"  her  mother 
said,  with  a  shrewd  look  at  her.  "Others 
would  have  an  eye  to  the  things  they  could  do 
for  themselves.  They  would  think  of  the 
clothes  they  could  buy,  and  the  motor-cars  they 
could  ride  about  in,  and  the  jewels  they  would 
have.  And  those  things  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way,  too,  you  know.  But  of  course  they  're 
not  the  big  ends  that  an  unselfish  woman  would 
have  in  mind." 

Elizabeth's  face  wore  a  puzzled  look  as  she 
pondered  over  her  mother's  words. 

"There's  one  thing  I  don't  understand,"  she 
said  after  a  time.  "How  could  a  girl — a  thor 
oughly  nice  girl — make  up  her  mind  to  live 
with  a  man  whom  she  didn't  really  love?  She 
might  respect  him — and  he  might  be  very  good 
to  her — but  if  there  were  no — no  other  feelings 
between  them — if  she  were  not  passionately  in 
love  with  him,  how  could  she  ever  reconcile  her 
self  to  bearing  him  children?  I'm  sure  I 
should  never  want  to  give  a  child  to  a  man  I 
did  not  love.  It  would  be  an  unnatural  thing. 


THE    ENTERING   WEDGE    49 

I  should  hate  such  a  child,  I'm  afraid.  Oh, 
Mother !  It  all  seems  so  wicked !  It  all  fright 
ens  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  think." 

Margaret  Ferris  bit  her  lip  with  vexation. 
She  had  been  congratulating  herself  on  the  way 
she  had  managed  the  difficult  situation.  That 
idea  of  Dunham's  wife  devoting  his  fortune  to 
charitable  works  had  been  a  positive  stroke  of 
genius,  she  told  herself.  It  had  a  visible  effect 
upon  Elizabeth's  attitude.  And  then  the  girl 
had  veered  off  and  there  they  were,  face  to  face 
with  another  barrier,  in  the  shape  of  an  ob 
stacle  that  was  by  no  means  easy  to  surmount. 
But  Mrs.  Ferris  rose  to  her  task. 

"Dear  child,"  she  began,  in  the  most  pro 
pitiatory  and  confidential  of  tones,  "this  ques 
tion  of  children  is  one  that  frightens  every 
young  bride.  It's  quite  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  it  should,  too.  But  you  see, 
things  have  changed  tremendously  even  in  our 
day.  Fifty  or  a  hundred  years  ago  the  family 
that  didn't  have  a  dozen  children  was  the  excep 
tion  to  the  rule.  Now  the  family  with  more 


50    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

than  one  or  two  is  the  exception.  And  many, 
many  married  women  never  have  any  children 
at  all.  Eace  suicide!  Nonsense!  I'm  speak 
ing  of  the  upper  classes,  you  know.  That's 
where  the  poor  really  help  us.  They  still  have 
large  families.  They  can't  be  dissuaded,  it 
seems.  And  so  we  more  conservative  mortals 
have  to  turn  to  and  provide  for  their  progeny. 
We  build  children's  homes,  and  children's  hos 
pitals,  free  schools  and  playgrounds.  It's  only 
fair — after  all — that  we  should  do  that  much, 
when  they  relieve  us  of  the  necessity  of  supply 
ing  a  population  for  the  earth. 

"So  don't  trouble  your  little  head  about  that 
sort  of  thing.  Dunham  would  defer  to  you,  I 
know.  You  see,  a  man  like  him  hasn't  his  heart 
set  on  founding  a  line.  It's  all  different  now 
from  what  it  was  in  the  old  days  when  a  man 
had  lands,  castles,  and  such  things  to  hand 
down  to  posterity.  Then  he  wanted  to  keep 
his  property  intact — it  was  a  sort  of  monument 
to  him.  But  what  sentiment  can  anyone  have  in 
bequeathing  railroad  stocks  to  his  children? 


THE    ENTERING   WEDGE    51 

He  knows  well  enough  that  after  he's  dead  his 
securities  will  soon  find  their  way  into  the 
market  again,  and  that  ten,  or  even  five  years 
after  his  demise  there'll  be  very  little  to  re 
mind  anybody  that  there  ever  was  such  a  per 
son.  Besides,  every  rich  man  knows  that  a  rich 
man's  son  is  never  any  good.  So  they  don't 
bother  much  about  having  any  nowadays.  And 
then,  too,  men  like  Dunham  are  too  busy  mo 
nopolizing  the  earth  to  think  much  about  any 
thing  else." 

With  a  laugh  Margaret  forthwith  dismissed 
the  subject  as  one  definitely  settled  and  Eliza 
beth  asked  her  no  more  questions — at  least 
upon  that  topic.  But  •  the  girl  still  pondered 
over  the  amazing  situation  that  confronted  her. 

"Why  should  he  want  to  marry  me?"  she 
questioned.  "I'm  sure  he  can't  love  me — he 
hardly  knows  me!  You  must  be  mistaken, 
Mother  dear." 

1 1  Don 't  be  silly, ' '  Margaret  said.  '  *  How  long 
do  you  suppose  it  takes  a  man  of  decision  to 
make  up  his  mind  whether  he  wants  to  marry 


52    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

a  certain  person?  No  doubt  Dunham  was  im 
mensely  taken  by  you  the  first  time  he  laid 
eyes  on  you.  You're  really  a  very  pretty  girl, 
Elizabeth.  And  I  dare  say  you  can  believe  in 
love  at  first  sight?  Although  it's  long  since  out 
of  fashion,  it 's  just  what  one  might  expect  from 
a  person  of  Dunham's  origin.  I'm  afraid  he's 
an  unfashionable  man;  so  why  be  surprised  if 
his  affections  exercise  themselves  in  an  unfash 
ionable  way?  Come!  come!  Don't  worry  be 
cause  someone's  in  love  with  you.  That's  the 
nicest  part  of  the  whole  affair — the  fact  that 
the  man  is  genuinely  fond  of  you." 

"But  when  I'm  not  fond  of  him,  how  can  I 
marry  him?  It  wouldn't  be  fair.  I'd  be  a 
liar!  A  cheat!  I'd  hate  myself."  Elizabeth 
was  most  unhappy. 

But  her  mother  was  indefatigable. 

"Nonsense!"  she  cried.  "You  don't  under 
stand  yourself.  You  don't  understand  Dun 
ham.  You've  looked  on  him  as  a  personage  in 
stead  of  as  a  flesh-and-blood  man.  He's  quite 
human — and  you  'd  find  him  very  kind  and  gen- 


THE    ENTERING   WEDGE    53 

erous,  I  know — and  there's  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  you'd  soon  become  very  fond  of  him. 
Indeed,  it's  quite  as  well  to  have  a  husband 
who's  a  good  bit  daffy  about  you — you  know 
they  say  there's  no  such  thing  as  a  husband  and 
wife  caring  for  each  other  in  just  the  same  de 
gree.  And  you  can  understand  how  unhappy 
you  would  be  if  you  married  someone  you  were 
desperately  in  love  with  but  who  was  more  or 
less  indifferent  to  you.  Yes — you're  a  very 
fortunate  girl,  Elizabeth.  You  ought  to  be 
ideally  happy,  I  'm  sure. ' ' 

in 

In  spite  of  her  mother's  attempt  to  mold 
her  mind  into  such  shape  as  would  cause  her 
complacently  to  regard  Dunham  in  the  light  of 
a  suitor,  Elizabeth  remained  far  from  con 
vinced.  Her  mother's  arguments  gradually 
lost  their  force  as  the  days  went  by  and  she 
came  little  by  little  to  look  upon  Margaret's 
theories  as  mere  whims. 

Elizabeth   knew  that   her   mother's   wishes 


54     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

sometimes  bordered  upon  obsessions  and  she 
assured  herself  that  Ealph  Dunham's  intention 
of  proposing  to  her  existed  solely  in  her 
mother's  mind. 

So  at  last  she  breathed  easily  again  and  for 
got  the  lowering  cloud  which  for  a  time  had 
hung  over  her  and  dimmed  her  usual  optimistic 
girlish  vision  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  V 

THREATENING  CLOUDS 
I 

AT  the  first  signs  of  summer  the  Ferrises  closed 
their  townhouse  and  migrated  to  Oak  Ledge, 
their  country-place  in  the  Berkshires. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  the  guests  were 
sleeping.  Margaret  too,  as  was  her  habit,  was 
still  in  bed,  giving  nature  the  opportunity  to 
do  for  her  what  could  not  be  trusted  solely  to 
her  French  maid.  There  had  been  a  time  when, 
in  spite  of  hours  of  massage,  her  face  had  re 
vealed  an  increasing  number  of  disconcerting 
wrinkles — the  tiny  witnesses  to  her  anxiety  over 
the  family's  finances.  Though  she  had  reli 
giously  spent  as  many  hours  in  bed  as  ever,  her 
sleep  had  been  but  fitful.  But  since  Dunham's 
overtures  Margaret's  hopes  had  buoyed  her 
up.  The  result  was  already  apparent  in 

55 


56    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

her  returning  color  and  the  freshness  of  her 
skin. 

Elizabeth,  waking  early,  had  looked  out  upon 
the  gold-flooded  sweep  of  fields  and  decided  that 
the  prospect  was  too  tempting  to  miss.  She 
dressed  hurriedly  and  went  down  to  the  break 
fast-room  where  she  found  her  father  just  about 
to  seat  himself  to  a  solitary  meal. 

Stephen  Ferris  was  conscious  of  a  guilty 
qualm  as  his  daughter  kissed  him  on  both 
cheeks.  He  observed  her  glowing  face  and 
sparkling  eyes.  Hers  were  the  joyous  spirits 
with  which  youth  is  blessed.  She  was  beauti 
ful — his  daughter.  He  did  not  wonder  that 
Dunham  had  found  her  desirable.  And  he  was 
all  the  more  doubtful,  as  he  looked  at  her  across 
the  table,  of  the  merits  of  the  cause  in  which 
he  had  enlisted. 

Ferris  said  little  during  the  meal.  While 
Elizabeth  chattered  throughout  the  breakfast 
her  father's  thoughts  turned  upon  the  unpleas 
ant  task  that  lay  before  him — the  disagreeable 
duty  of  discussing  Dunham's  eligibility  with 


THREATENING   CLOUDS     57 

the  girl.  He  had  shirked  the  obligation  as  long 
as  Margaret  would  permit.  The  time  had  come 
when  he  knew  that  he  must  speak.  But  it  was 
characteristic  of  him  that  he  still  postponed 
broaching  the  subject.  Somehow  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  find  an  opening. 

ii 

"Will  you  come  for  a  walk?"  he  asked  Eliza 
beth,  when  having  finished  their  breakfast  they 
stepped  out  upon  the  broad  piazza. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  she  said  gladly.  And  tak 
ing  a  hat  and  stick  from  the  hall  he  rejoined 
her  quickly.  Through  the  blossoming  meadows 
they  made  their  way,  to  a  distant  hill  covered 
with  swaying  conifers  and  carpeted  thick  with 
a  blanket  of  pine  needles. 

Watch  as  he  would,  Ferris  could  discover  no 
turn  of  their  rambling  talk  that  came  with  gun 
shot  of  the  topic  which  was  uppermost  in  his 
mind.  So  at  last  he  spurred  himself  on  and 
took  the  leap. 

"Elizabeth!"  he  said,  all  at  once.    "You 


58    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

have  grown  up.  It's  hard  for  me  to  realize  the 
fact — but  it's  true  nevertheless." 

She  looked  at  him  brightly  and  gave  his  arm 
a  squeeze  as  she  answered — 

"I'm  a  big  girl,  you  mean,  Daddy — but  your 
little  daughter  just  the  same." 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  said.  "And  I've  been  aw 
fully  glad  to  have  you,  and  thankful,  too.  But 
the  hard  part  of  it  all  is — that  I  can't  always 
keep  you.  You'll  be  getting  married  some  day 
and  then  you  won't  be  walking  through  the 
fields  with  me  any  more." 

She  laughed  at  his  seriousness. 

"Don't  be  gloomy  over  that  prospect,"  she 
replied.  "I'm  a  new  woman.  Nowadays  girls 
don't  look  forward  to  being  married  as  the  sole 
aim  of  their  existence.  Marriage  is  something 
mercifully  provided  for  women  who  can't  do 
anything  else  with  their  lives.  There's  too 
much  for  women  to  do  in  this  age, — oh !  social 
work — votes  for  women — the  improvement  of 
the  condition  of  the  poor — too  many  things  of 
that  sort  crying  for  our  attention." 


THREATENING    CLOUDS     59 

Improving  the  condition  of  the  poor !  Ferris 
winced  at  the  unintended  irony  of  the  remark. 
If  Elizabeth  married  Dunham  she  would  cer 
tainly  be  improving  the  condition  of  the  poor. 
He  thought  with  a  shudder  of  his  bank  balance. 
Yet  lie  wished  that  Margaret  had  not  insisted 
on  his  having  a  talk  with  their  daughter.  Mar 
garet  was  not  the  kind  to  suffer  any  conscien 
tious  twinges.  He  was  too  sensitive  perhaps, 
as  his  wife  was  forever  telling  him. 

He  looked  at  Elizabeth  curiously.  And  he 
was  glad  that  she  could  not  read  his  thoughts. 

"My  dear — this  modern-woman  stuff  is  all 
right  for  unattractive  girls  who  haven't  any 
chance  of  being  married.  It's  a  very  good 
thing  for  girls  from  obscure  families — gives 
them  a  chance  to  do  something  besides  marry 
ing  some  poor  clerk  and  settling  down  to  a 
humdrum  life  of  bringing  up  babies  and  try 
ing  to  make  both  ends  of  a  scanty  salary  meet. 
But  your  position  is  quite  different  It's  in 
evitable  that  you  should  marry. " 

Elizabeth  laughed  again. 


60    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

"What  a  dear,  old-fashioned  person  you 
are!"  she  cried.  "  You  're  hopelessly  behind 
the  times." 

Ferris  smiled  at  her  cajolery. 

"Perhaps!"  he  admitted.  "But  there  are 
other  men — younger  than  I  am,  too — who  are 
just  as  old-fashioned.  There's  someone  right 
in  our  house  now  who  doesn't  think  you  ought 
to  devote  yourself  to  a  career  of  suffrage,  or 
socialism,  or  any  other  of  those  queer  fads." 

"Oh!  Mother!  Yes,  of  couse.  I  know  her 
heart's  set  on  making  a  social  butterfly  of  me." 

* '  No — I  wasn  't  thinking  of  your  mother.  It 's 
a  man — a  certain  man  who  would  like  to  marry 
you." 

She  could  see  that  his  hands  were  trembling 
violently  as  he  continued  quickly — 

"Elizabeth,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  You're 
twenty  now,  aren't  you?" 

She  was  frightened  by  the  look  on  his  face, 
but  she  said  that  she  would  be  twenty  in  nine 
weeks. 


THREATENING   CLOUDS     61 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  are  old  enough  to  be 
married." 

She  nearly  screamed ;  and  when  she  had  had 
time  to  get  her  breath  she  told  him  that  she  did 
not  want  to  be  married  at  all  for  a  long  time. 
Ferris  seemed  impatient  and  cut  her  short. 

"Your  mother  married  me  when  she  was  only 
a  few  weeks  over  eighteen,"  he  said.  "And 
I  think  early  marriages  are  the  happiest.  I 
want  you  to  think  about  it." 

She  had  been  congratulating  herself  that  her 
mother  had  forgotten  all  about  her  ambition 
for  marrying  her  off  to  Ealph  Dunham.  But 
her  father's  abrupt  broaching  of  the  subject 
of  marriage  made  her  suspect  at  once  that  her 
mother  had  been  urging  her  ideas  upon  him. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  time;  and  then  a 
thought  came  into  Elizabeth's  head  and  she 
asked  wickedly — 

"Father,  has  Jack  been  speaking  to  you?" 

"Jack?    Jack  who?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  Papa!    Jack  Fleming  of  course,"  she 


62    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

answered.  Jack  Fleming  was  a  sort  of  distant 
cousin  of  hers  who  happened  to  be  staying  at 
Oak  Ledge.  There  was  no  more  sentiment  be 
tween  him  and  Elizabeth  than  between  brother 
and  sister.  She  was  teasing  her  father  deliber 
ately  and  she  did  not  dare  to  look  at  him  just 
then  for  she  knew  that  he  was  angry. 

"Jack  Fleming!  Why,  he  hasn't  a  penny!" 
he  said  quickly. 

"He  likes  me,  I  think,"  Elizabeth  said  in  a 
very  low  voice. 

"My  child,  what  is  the  good  of  his  liking  you, 
or  any  girl?  The  chief  thing — the  only  thing 
you  must  have  if  you  want  to  get  married — is 
money — lots  of  money." 

She  was  startled.  Quite  suddenly  she  looked 
up  and  said: 

"What  is  it,  Papa!" 

He  answered  without  looking  at  her : 

"Dunham  wants  to  marry  you.  He  is  one  of 
the  richest  men  in  New  York." 

Elizabeth  nearly  screamed. 


THREATENING   CLOUDS     63 

"Wants  to!"  she  said.  "Perhaps,  but  I'm 
not  willing.  And  I  should  think  you're  not 
willing  either. ' ' 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  and  she  could  see 
that  he  was  nervous. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

She  was  daring  now,  and  bold.  She  turned 
and  looked  him  full  in  the  face : 

"You  wouldn't  want  me  to  marry  him,  would 
you?" 

"Why  not?" 

Elizabeth  was  shocked.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  the  reasons  were  plain :  Dunham  was  old, 
he  was  not  handsome  or  charming,  and  some 
how  she  was  sure  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the 
same  sort  of  people  as  her  father  and  mother 
and  her  friends.  And  now  that  the  horrid  sug 
gestion  about  marrying  him  was  put  into  her 
head  again  she  found  out  quite  suddenly  that 
she  didn't  like  him  at  all. 

But  to  have  to  answer  her  father's  question, 
put  in  such  a  tone,  too,  was  dreadful.  She  felt 
as  if  she  were  choking. 


64    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

"He  is  much  older  than  I  am,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know  that.  But  if  you  could 
like  him — he  would  be  generous  to  you,  and  he 
would  be  kind  to  you,  I  think,"  said  Ferris. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  couldn't,  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't!"  she 
gasped  out. 

Stephen  Ferris 's  face  looked  dreadfully 
white,  and  it  cut  Elizabeth  to  the  heart  to  think 
she  was  disappointing  him.  But  he  patted  her 
on  the  shoulder  and  said: 

"All  right,  my  dear.  You  must  do  as  you 
like,  of  course.  But  if  you  were  a  little  older, 
and  I  could  talk  to  you  better — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  patting  her  shoul 
der  again,  ended  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  and 
again  said,  "All  right,  my  dear." 

Then  he  turned  away  and  said : 

"Well,  let's  get  back  to  the  house.  They 
will  be  down  by  this  time." 

And  then  there  came  upon  her  the  strangest 
feeling  she  had  ever  had  yet.  Though  he  was 


THREATENING    CLOUDS     65 

so  sweet  and  so  kind,  and  though  he  turned 
away  as  if  the  dreadful  thing  he  had  spoken 
about  was  dropped  altogether,  Elizabeth  had, 
just  for  a  moment,  a  feeling  as  if  she  suddenly 
had  found  her  hands  and  feet  tied  up  so  that  she 
could  not  move.  And  a  horrible  feeling  came 
over  her  that  something  was  hanging  over  her 
from  which  she  could  not  escape. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   BARGAIN 

I 

THROUGHOUT  the  weeks  that  followed,  Eliza 
beth  and  Dunham  often  met.  A  succession  of 
week-end  yatching-  and  house-parties  usually 
found  the  two  the  guests  of  the  same  host. 
And  Dunham's  attentions  were  more  and  more 
openly  directed  to  Elizabeth,  while  her  mother 
seized  every  opportunity  to  convince  her  of 
Dunham's  desirability  as  a  husband. 

It  was  at  the  Eamsays'  country  place  on 
Long  Island  that  Dunham  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  The  polo  cup-matches  were  being  played 
at  Meadow  Brook  and  every  house  for  miles 
around  was  crowded  with  people.  Upon  the 
eventful  night,  which  Elizabeth  was  destined  to 
remember  long,  Dunham  had  suggested  to  her 
a  stroll  upon  the  beach.  It  was  warm  and  the 

66 


THE    BARGAIN  67 

moon  was  approaching  the  full.  Upon  the 
broad  piazzas  enthusiastic  groups  were  dis 
cussing  the  day's  play,  while  the  more  ener 
getic  members  of  the  house-party  were  dancing 
to  the  lively  strains  of  a  graphophone. 

Elizabeth  heard  Dunham's  invitation  with 
dismay.  She  had  studiously  avoided  being  left 
alone  with  her  admirer.  But  she  could  think 
of  no  plausible  excuse  then ;  and  soon  they  were 
walking  through  the  garden,  down  the  path 
which  led  to  the  bay. 

Almost  fearfully  Elizabeth  peered  through 
the  midsummer  gloaming  at  her  companion,  as 
if  she  would  discern  at  once,  without  further 
suspense,  if  his  purpose  were  what  she  had  long 
dreaded.  Was  it  come  at  last — the  crisis  that 
she  feared? 

What  she  saw,  in  the  half-light,  was  a  man 
of  good  height,  with  broad  shoulders  and  a 
strongly  knit  frame.  He  had  a  resolute  face, 
and  short,  thick,  wavy  brown  hair;  a  pair  of 
quick,  gray  eyes,  black-lashed  and  deeply-set 
under  somewhat  bushy  brows ;  firm  lips,  a  trifle 


68    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

thin;  a  massive  jowl,  and  a  clear,  colorless  skin 
— not  by  any  means  a  " beauty  man,"  but  a 
man  whose  face  had  the  power  to  attract  as 
well  as  to  repel. 

n 

Along  the  beach,  upon  the  hard  sand  close 
to  the  water's  edge,  they  walked.  And  Dun 
ham,  to  his  great  astonishment,  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  put  his  thoughts  into  words.  But  at 
last  he  broke  the  silence  which  had  fallen  upon 
them — a  quiet  which  was  only  the  more  marked 
by  the  occasional  wash  of  the  ebbing  tide. 

"Miss  Ferris,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  asked 
you  to  come  down  here  on  the  shore,  away  from 
the  others,  because  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you — and  I  couldn't  say  it  except  when  we 
were  alone."  And  straightway,  drawing  a 
deep  breath,  he  plunged  into  his  declaration. 
"The  very  first  time  I  saw  you  I  thought  you 
were  lovely — and  since  I  have  known  you  bet 
ter  my  first  impression  has  only  become  con 
firmed.  I  don't  mean  that  I  had  any  doubt — 


THE    BARGAIN  69 

from  the  beginning — upon  the  subject;  but  the 
time's  past  when  a  man  can  carry  a  damsel  off 
on  his  charger  without  any  preliminaries. 
Nowadays  the  lady's  own  wishes  have  to  be 
consulted.  I  don't  know  how  you  regard  me 
— I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  whether  you  find 
my  society  even  endurable.  You  see,  all  young 
women  like  you  are  so  well-mannered  that  a 
man  like  myself  never  knows  what  they  think 
or  feel.  But  I  can  assure  you  that  there's  no 
doubt  in  my  mind  as  to  my  attitude  toward 
you.  I  want  you  to  do  me  the  great  honor  of 
becoming  my  wife.  I  can  say  honestly  that  I 
never  wanted  or  asked  any  other  woman  to 
marry  me.  That  I'm  doing  so  now  is  as  much 
a  surprise  to  me,  in  a  way,  as  it  may  be  to  you, 
for  I  never  thought — somehow — that  I  should 
find  a  girl  who  appealed  to  me  as  you  do. 
Never  imagined  that  I'd  meet  any  woman  who 
would  attract  me  so  much  that  I'd  want  to  live 
with  her.  This  may  all  sound  queer  to  you — 
but  what  I'm  trying  to  do  is  to  tell  you  how  I 
feel  toward  you.  I  suppose  most  people  would 


70    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

call  it  love.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I'm  not 
a  man  who  has  been  given  to  self-analysis. 
Haven't  had  the  time  nor  the  inclination.  It's 
those  moody  writer  chaps  who  can  pick  a  pas 
sion  to  pieces.  All  my  life  I've  simply  wanted 
things  and  then  tried  to  get  them.  Now  I  want 
you.  And  if  you  can  say  'Yes,'  I  promise 
never  to  cause  you,  knowingly,  any  regret  for 
marrying  me.  Your  life,  your  happiness,  your 
honor, — I'll  do  my  best  to  cherish  them." 

As  Dunham  finished,  he  came  to  a  halt  upon 
the  beach.  Elizabeth  paused,  too,  and  they 
faced  each  other  silently  for  one  brief,  tense 
moment.  A  lump  in  her  throat  was  choking 
her.  Her  eyes  sought  his  almost  piteously  as 
they  blazed  at  her  under  his  heavy  eyebrows. 
Even  Elizabeth,  as  well  as  Dunham,  knew  that 
he  was  strangely  moved.  He  held  himself 
rigid  under  a  sudden  strain  of  unexpected  sus 
pense  and  the  knotted  veins  swelled  on  his 
broad  forehead.  As  he  watched  her  he  saw 
that  she  grew  pale  and  shuddered. 

And  still  she  said  nothing. 


THE    BARGAIN  71 

"You — you  seem  frightened,"  he  told  her. 
"Please  don't  be  afraid  of  me.  Don't  feel 
that  this  is  something  you  can't  escape  from, 
if  you  wish.  I'd  be  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  try  to  induce  you  to  do  something  you 
didn't  want  to  do." 

"I — I  believe  you,"  she  said,  finding  her 
voice  at  last.  "I  am  sure  of  it.  For  I  know 
you're  too  big  a  man  to  be  willing  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  a  woman.  Before  I  can  give  you 
an  answer,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  "I  too 
must  tell  you  something  of  my  own  feelings. 
You  see — I  want  to  be  honest  with  you.  I 
couldn't  bear  ever  to  have  you  think — later — 
that  I  deceived  you,  that  I  misled  you  in  any 
way." 

''Impossible!"  Dunham  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
of  relief.  So  he  had  a  chance !  He  even  won 
dered  why  he  had — for  a  moment — doubted  the 
outcome.  He  never  asked  more  than  a  chance. 
Granted  that,  for  him  success  in  any  undertak 
ing  was  an  assured  thing.  "Of  course  you 
wouldn't  deceive  me — you  couldn't,  Miss  Fer- 


72    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

ris.  It's  not  in  you.  But  what  is  it  that  you 
have  on  your  mind?"  he  asked  her. 

She  breathed  quickly  in  her  agitation  and 
clasped  her  slender  hands  nervously.  Dun 
ham's  searching  eyes  disconcerted  her. 

"If — if  I  should  marry  you,"  she  said  halt 
ingly,  "would  you  be  willing  to  give  me — oh! 
it's  hard  to  put  it  into  words — to  give  me  a 
great  deal  of  freedom?  More  freedom  than 
many  women  might  ask?" 

"My  dear  lady,"  Dunham  answered,  "your 
happiness  would  be  my  chief  concern.  This 
freedom  that  you  speak  of — if  it's  essential  to 
your  well-being — ought  not  to  be  a  difficult 
thing  for  your  husband  to  provide;  unless,  of 
course,  he  merely  married  to  secure  a  house 
keeper — and  I  reckon  I  can  provide  you  with 
plenty  of  servants.  So  I  don't  believe  you'd 
find  yourself  hampered.  You  ought  to  be 
much  freer  than  you've  ever  been.  A  married 
woman  can  do  just  about  as  she  pleases,  you 
know. ' ' 

Elizabeth's  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  her  la- 


THE   BARGAIN  73 

bored  breathing.  Even  in  the  moonlight  her 
face  and  neck  darkened  over  the  unwonted  rush 
of  blood  that  coursed  up  to  her  temples. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand,"  she 
said.  "It  is  very  hard  to  explain.  What  I 
mean  is  this :  I'm  not  very  old ;  and  I've  never 
really  faced  the  question  of  marriage  before. 
And  it  frightens  me.  There's  so  much  about 
it  that's  a  sealed  book  to  me.  I  believe  that 
you  would  be  kind  to  me — but  whether  I  mar 
ried  you  would  depend  upon  what  you  expected 
of  me.  It  may  seem  to  you  very  unfair,  but  I 
couldn't  give  everything  to  you — nor  to  any 
man  I  have  ever  met.  I — I  don't  know  how 
much  you'd  expect — how  much  you  would  ask 
of  me."  She  had  avoided  his  eyes,  as  she 
spoke ;  but  now  she  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 
"I  couldn't  give  what  perhaps  you  would  feel 
you  must  have  .  .  .  children — they — they're 
simply  out  of  the  question."  She  looked  up  at 
him  fearfully  for  a  moment,  and  then  quickly 
turned  her  head.  "That's  what  I  mean.  Per 
haps  sometime  I  might  feel  differently  about  it. 


74    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

But — it  frightens  me  now.  And  I  can't  prom 
ise  that  I'd  ever  change.  I  had  to  tell  you — 
and  you  don't  have  to  marry  me,  now  that  you 
know." 

Dunham  considered  the  matter  rapidly. 
Her  fears  he  set  down  as  the  natural  shrinking 
of  a  girl  who  was  herself  little  more  than  a 
child.  She  was  hardly  mature,  mentally — as 
was  not  uncommon  among  the  children  of  the 
rich.  He  knew  that  the  wits  of  the  poor 
quicken  early  under  the  struggle  for  existence. 
Children?  He  had  not  given  a  serious  thought 
to  that  phase  of  his  marriage.  Vaguely  he  had 
seen  himself — perhaps  two  decades  off — with 
younger  people  in  his  house.  But  Dunham's 
imagination  concerned  itself  habitually  with 
things  of  the  present.  A  year,  or  two,  or  five 
— ten  at  the  most — stretching  away  into  the 
future,  gave  him  vista  enough  for  his  plans. 
His  world  moved  too  fast  to  anticipate  too 
much.  Modern  industrialism  is  an  ever-shift 
ing  thing.  Men  build  up  only  to  tear  down 
again,  and  begin  their  labor  anew  upon  a 


THE    BARGAIN  75 

vaster  scale.  A  river  is  diverted  from  its 
course  to  make  fertile  some  barren  waste ;  or  a 
tunnel  is  dug,  to  give  access  to  some  isolated 
spot;  continents  are  separated  and  the  physical 
map  of  the  world  is  changed.  And  amid  all 
this  constant  alteration  he  is  the  genius  who 
can  adapt  his  plans  to  new  conditions — who 
can  suddenly  marshal  his  forces  in  the  battle 
of  commercialism  and  by  an  unexpected  change 
of  front  turn  defeat  into  victory. 

Children  had  not  entered  Ralph  Dunham's 
scheme  of  life. 

Surely,  he  thought,  this  girl's  reluctance  is 
quite  to  be  expected.  Probably  it  is  the  usual 
attitude  of  carefully  sheltered  young  women 
from  whose  eyes  the  sterner  facts  of  existence 
have  been  hidden.  Dunham  knew  that  there 
were  countless  homes  in  New  York,  as  in  every 
great  city, — homes  consisting  each  of  only  one 
room,  in  which  the  wonderful  mysteries  of  life 
and  death  were  constantly  being  enacted  in  the 
presence  of  old  and  young  alike.  But  he  like 
wise  knew — or  thought  he  did — of  the  igno- 


76    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

ranee  in  which  the  wealthy  rear  their  girls  and 
boys. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"You  are  very  honest  with  me,  and  I  appreci 
ate  it.  And  so  far  as  this  question  of  freedom 
is  concerned,  put  your  mind  at  rest,  please. 
It's  you,  I've  been  thinking  of.  It's  you  I'm 
asking  for;  and  having  won  you — as  I  hope  to 
— do  you  suppose  I'd  have  the  heart  to  make 
you  unhappy?  No,  my  dear  child;  you've 
nothing  to  fear,  believe  me.  .  .  .  And  you'll 
say  'Yes?'  "  he  asked  her. 

"You — you  understand  ?"  She  put  the 
question  timidly.  "Why  I  make  this  reserva 
tion!  It  is  because  I  am  not  sure  of  myself — 
yet.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  marry  you.  It 
may  be  a  wicked  thing  for  me  to  do;  for  I'm 
afraid  I  don't  know  what  it  means  to  love  a 
man  absolutely.  It  may  be  that  I  am  different 
from  other  girls.  I  only  know  that  I  am  as  I 
am.  And  if  you  still  want  me,  then  I  will — 
marry  you." 

Dunham  laid  his  hand  quickly  upon  her  arm. 


THE   BARGAIN  77 

Her  naivete  had  given  an  odd  zest  to  the  occa 
sion,  which  it  would  have  lacked  with  a  girl  of 
a  commonplace  nature  and  conventional  ideas. 

But  she  stepped  back  at  once,  as  if  his  action 
had  frightened  her. 

Dunham  was  piqued,  amused,  vexed,  and  in 
terested  all  in  one  moment.  He  felt  that  she 
was  absolutely  delicious  in  her  disregard  of  the 
extraordinary  prize  that  he  offered  in  the 
matrimonial  market.  He  realized  that  there 
was  a  tantalizing  fascination  about  her;  that 
her  lips  looked  fresh  and  fragrant  and  inviting 
in  the  moonlight.  It  thrilled  him — the  thought 
that  he  had  triumphed.  And  it  cost  him  much 
not  to  take  her  up  in  his  arms  and  crush  her  to 
his  heart  with  masterful  kisses. 

But  he  knew  that  the  time  for  love-making 
was  not  then. 


CHAPTER  VH 

GIVING  AND  TAKING 
I 

So  Elizabeth  was  engaged  to  Dunham!  The 
news  caused  much  secret  rejoicing  in  the  Fer 
ris  household.  The  solution  of  the  family's 
financial  difficulties  lifted  a  great  weight  from 
the  shoulders  of  Margaret  and  Stephen.  They 
had  been  like  condemned  prisoners,  anxiously 
awaiting  a  pardon  which  they  hardly  dared 
hope  would  arrive  in  time. 

Elizabeth  had  returned  home  two  days  after 
that  evening  when  she  and  Dunham  had  made 
their  bargain  upon  the  shore  of  the  Sound. 
When  she  told  her  father  and  mother  what  had 
happened  they  had  had  much  difficulty  in  hid 
ing  their  triumphant  joy.  And  Margaret 
kissed  and  patted  her  daughter  with  an  unac 
customed  warmth. 

78 


GIVING   AND    TAKING        79 

"You  seem  very  glad,  Mother,"  Elizabeth, 
said,  glowing  beneath  the  caresses  which  had 
been  sadly  lacking  throughout  her  childhood. 

"Of  course  I  am,  dearie,"  Margaret  Ferris 
said.  "You  have  proved  yourself  a  sensible 
girl.  And  now  your  future  is  assured.  You're 
going  to  be  married  to  a  good  man  who  not 
only  wants  to  take  the  best  of  care  of  you,  and 
give  you  everything,  but  he  has  the  means  to 
do  it.  Taking  the  will  for  the  deed  is  all  very 
well  in  theory;  but  in  every-day  life  it's  a 
pretty  unsatisfactory  substitute  for  the  real 
thing.  Many,  many  young  brides  find  out  the 
truth  of  the  matter  very  quickly.  They  marry 
young  men  who  would  be  only  too  glad  to  buy 
them  everything  they  could  wish  for;  but  not 
having  any  money  they  can  only  provide  love 
in  a  cottage,  with  the  traditional  bread  and 
cheese  and  kisses.  Girls  who  have  been  well 
brought  up,  as  you  have,  accustomed  to  having 
every  luxury,  are  bound  to  find  such  an  exist 
ence  very  palling  after  its  novelty  has  worn 
off.  That's  why  we  are  so  glad!  We  know 


80    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

that  you'll  be  well  taken  care  of  and  I'm  sure 
you're  going  to  be  very  happy."  And  Mrs. 
Ferris  kissed  her  child  again,  beaming  upon 
her  the  while  as  though  it  were — and  indeed 
it  was — one  of  the  happiest  moments  of  her 
life. 

Stephen,  as  was  usual  with  him,  had  less  to 
say  than  his  wife.  But  he  gave  Elizabeth  a 
paternal  peck  upon  her  cheek  and  nodded  his 
approval  of  Margaret's  remarks.  He  knew 
better  than  to  attempt  to  gloss  over  the  situa 
tion.  He  had  always  been  inept  at  any  busi 
ness  requiring  subterfuge — though  he  had 
never  known  his  shortcomings  in  that  respect 
until  his  marriage.  Living  with  Margaret  had 
opened  his  eyes  to  a  realization  of  how  intri 
cate  and  complex  a  matter  life  really  is.  Look 
ing  upon  a  woman's  daily  maneuvers  from  be 
hind  the  scenes,  so  to  speak,  had  taught  him 
that  he  was  ill  equipped  by  temperament,  train 
ing,  and  even  mentality,  to  skirmish  his  way 
unaided  through  the  world.  And  until  he 
found  himself  confronted  by  poverty  he  had 


GIVING   AND    TAKING        81 

fervently  congratulated  himself  that  his  fam 
ily  had  provided  so  well  for  his  wants. 

The  fact  that  Stephen  Ferris  was  so  entirely 
aware  of  his  own  defects  made  his  present 
sense  of  relief  all  the  keener.  He  devoutly 
thanked  God  for  his  timely  escape  from  the 
ruin  which  had  menaced  him  so  threateningly. 

"When  are  you  going  to  be  married,  Eliza 
beth?'*  the  practical  Margaret  asked  as  soon 
as  the  first  felicitations  were  finished. 

"Ralph  wants  the  wedding  this  Fall — in 
about  two  months,"  Elizabeth  answered.  "Do 
you  think  I  could  be  ready  so  soon?" 

Eeady !  Margaret  laughed  out  of  sheer  joy. 
And  she  told  herself  mentally  that  she  would 
have  undertaken  to  have  Elizabeth's  trousseau 
complete  in  two  weeks'  time  had  it  been  neces 
sary.  She  knew  how  the  tradespeople  would 
tumble  over  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to 
fit  out  Ralph  Dunham's  wife.  But  Elizabeth 
guessed  nothing  of  the  thoughts  that  were  flash 
ing  through  her  mother's  mind. 

"I  don't  think  that's  too  soon,  dear,"  Mar- 


82    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

garet  told  her.  "Of  course  there'll  be  a  great 
deal  to  do.  But  we'll  begin  at  once  and  I'm 
sure  there'll  be  no  trouble  in  having  a  very 
nice  trousseau  ready  in  that  tune." 

Elizabeth,  it  must  be  confessed,  seemed  less 
eager  than  her  mother  at  the  prospect  of  an 
early  Fall  wedding. 

"But  I'm  not  sure  I  want  to  be  married  so 
soon,"  she  objected.  "You  see,  it's  all  rather 
unexpected  and  I  feel  as  if  I  needed  some  time 
to  accustom  myself  to — to  the  idea  of  being 
married.  After  all,  why  should  I  have  to 
hurry?  I  shall  be  married  for  the  rest  of  my 
life — and  I  haven't  been  out  long,  and  I  think 
I'd  like  to  go  about  a  few  months  longer  just  as 
— as  a  girl,  you  know." 

Her  mother  laughed. 

"I  know  perfectly  well  how  you  feel,"  she 
exclaimed.  "You  rather  dread  the  prospect 
of  being  married.  All  young  girls  are  reluc 
tant  to  take  the  final  step.  But  you'd  find,  I'm 
sure,  that  you'd  feel  no  different  if  you  waited 
a  year.  So  why  postpone  the  inevitable?  I 


GIVING   AND    TAKING        83 

really  think,  too,  that  you  ought  to  consider 
Ealph.  Men  like  him,  who  are  just  old  enough 
to  realize,  after  being  wrapped  up  in  business 
for  years,  that  they  should  have  been  married 
long  ago,  don't  like  to  wait,  once  they  have 
found  a  girl  they  like.  They  want  to  be  mar 
ried  with  just  as  little  delay  as  possible.  So  I 
think  you  should  just  make  up  your  mind  to 
follow  Ealph 's  wishes.  We'll  announce  your 
engagement — oh!  in  about  a  fortnight — and 
once  you  have  grown  accustomed  to  having 
people  know  all  about  it  your  engagement 
won't  seem  half  so  odd  as  it  does  now." 

So  the  thing  was  settled.  Margaret 's  wishes 
prevailed,  though  now  and  then  Elizabeth  was 
inclined  to  protest  against  being  hurried.  But 
her  mother  was  determined  to  bring  matters  to 
a  speedy  termination.  Their  need  of  money 
-  was  too  pressing  for  her  to  be  willing  to  coun 
tenance  any  delay.  And  moreover  she  wanted 
to  see  Elizabeth  safely  married  to  Dunham. 
She  knew  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  draw  a 
comfortable  breath  until  the  wedding  had  ac- 


84    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

tually  taken  place.  Any  delay,  more  than  was 
necessary  to  an  observance  of  ordinary  social 
usage,  she  objected  to  vigorously.  Who  knew 
what  might  happen?  Every  paper  one  picked 
up  contained  news  of  automobile  accidents,  and 
shipwrecks,  and  railroad  collisions.  No!  She 
did  not  intend  to  see  the  prize  snatched  away 
from  under  her  very  nose. 

So  Elizabeth  gradually  became  resigned  to 
the  prospect. 

n 

There  was  much  to  be  done  in  the  ensuing 
weeks.  Margaret  took  up  with  energy  the 
numerous  duties  that  devolved  upon  her. 
Her  capable  brain  planned  everything — in  the 
large  and  down  to  the  smallest  detail.  And  it 
was  characteristic  of  her  relations  with 
Stephen  that  she  was  the  one — and  not  he — 
who  not  only  proclaimed  the  necessity  of  a 
definite  adjustment  of  Dunham's  promises  to 
them,  but  also  effected  the  settlement. 

Stephen  displayed  a  distinct  aversion  to  ap- 


GIVING   AND    TAKING       85 

preaching  Dunham  on  the  subject  of  the  money 
Dunham  had  agreed  to  pay  for  the  wife  he  was 
buying.  His  reluctance  to  broach  the  subject 
to  his  future  son-in-law  was  quite  in  keeping 
with  his  usual  methods  of  transacting  business 
affairs.  And  Margaret  soon  gave  up  in  dis 
gust  her  attempt  to  urge  Stephen  to  some  defi 
nite  action. 

" Don't  hurry  him,"  he  had  said.  " Dun 
ham's  all  right.  He's  square.  He'll  do  just 
as  he  promised." 

"Of  course — I  know  that  he  will,"  she  had 
answered  testily.  "  That's  not  the  point, 
Steve.  And  I  know,  as  you  say,  that  we  can 
manage  to  get  along  without  the  money  until 
the  wedding.  But  don't  you  see  that  it's  safer 
to  get  it  now  and  have  it?  No  one  knows  what 
might  happen.  Some  terrible  thing  might  oc 
cur  to  prevent  their  being  married  at  all.  Then 
where  would  we  be?" 

li Nothing's  likely  to  happen,"  he  had  said. 

"But  what  harm  can  there  be  in  going  to 
Dunham  now!  He'd  never  miss  the  money." 


86    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

Stephen  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  like  to  ask  him  to  pay  up,"  he  had 
told  her.  "He'll  come  around  and  settle  of 
his  own  accord.  He  may  do  it  any  day  now." 
And  that  was  all  the  satisfaction  she  could  get 
from  her  liege  lord. 

So  Margaret  went  to  Dunham  herself.  And 
as  a  result  of  her  skillful  moves,  upon  a  day  ap 
pointed  for  the  occasion  Dunham  and  his  lawyer 
came  to  the  Ferris '  house,  where  Margaret  and 
Stephen,  together  with  Craig  Clifton,  their  own 
lawyer,  waited  in  a  fever  of  expectancy. 

Craig  Clifton  was  a  young  man,  not  yet 
thirty.  He  had  been  the  junior  partner  in  the 
law  firm  of  Van  Tyn  and  Clifton,  and  with  the 
death  of  the  senior  member  had  inherited  the 
Ferrises  among  other  clients  whom  Van  Tyn 
had  advised  for  years. 

Clifton  had  shown  no  surprise  when  Stephen 
« 
outlined  to  him  the  terms  of  the  transaction. 

Even  in  the  few  years  of  his  practice  of  law  he 
had  come  across  too  many  curious  marriage 
settlements  to  be  astonished  by  his  client's  in- 


GIVING   AND    TAKING       87 

formation.  The  only  unusual  feature  of  the  af 
fair  was  the  size  of  the  payment  to  be  made — 
a  circumstance  the  contemplation  of  which  was 

very  pleasing  to  Clifton,  since  his  fee  would  be 

\ 
based  upon  the  amount  of  money  involved. 

He  did  not  share  the  nervousness  of  Eliza 
beth's  father  and  mother  as  they  waited  in  Fer 
ris'  study.  And  since  both  Margaret's  and 
Stephen's  thoughts  were  too  much  occupied  by 
the  approaching  realization  of  long  weeks  of 
hoping — if  not  of  prayers — Clifton  sat  there 
calmly  deliberating  in  his  mind  as  to  how  large 
a  fee  his  clients  would  pay  without  protesting. 
Ferris,  he  knew,  would  be  more  than  reason 
able.  But  he  reflected  that  women  were  more 
difficult — especially  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Ferris' 
type,  who  looked  upon  bills  of  any  sort  (no  mat 
ter  how  legitimate)  as  something  bordering 
upon  imposition,  if  not  actual  insult. 

At  last  Dunham  and  his  lawyer  arrived. 
The  great  man,  trusting  to  his  attorney,  took 
little  part  in  the  conversation.  Nor  indeed  did 
the  matter  require  much  discussion.  The  point 


88    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

which  Margaret  had  feared  might  be  raised — an 
unwillingness  on  Dunham's  part  to  relinquish 
all  hold  upon  the  money  until  the  marriage 
should  have  been  effected — was  not  brought  up 
at  all.  Dunham's  lawyer  had  spoken  to  his 
client  upon  that  feature  and  had  been  directed 
to  deliver  the  funds  unconditionally.  He  was 
willing  to  risk  any  danger  of  the  marriage's 
failing  to  take  place.  As  for  the  possible  de 
mise  of  one  of  the  parties  prior  to  the  event, 
Elizabeth  seemed  to  him  most  unlikely  to  die; 
and  he  had  said  to  the  legal  light :  ' '  If  I  should 
die  they  might  as  well  have  the  money  as  any 
one  else.  It  would  be  of  no  use  to  me,  you 
know,"  he  had  added  grimly. 

in 

So  it  was  settled.  At  last  Margaret  and 
Stephen  saw  before  them  the  proceeds  of  the 
bartering  of  their  child.  They  had  been  wise 
in  their  day  and  generation.  What  they  had 
had  to  sell  they  had  disposed  of  to  the  highest 
bidder — the  first,  to  be  sure,  but  to  the  highest, 


GIVING   AND    TAKING       89 

there  was  no  doubt.  Yes!  like  thousands  of 
other  aristocrats  they  had  sold  their  daughter 
in  the  markets  of  the  world. 

Upon  two  small  slips  of  paper  was  the  tragic 
story  written.  Margaret  clutched  hers  fiercely, 
as  if  she  would  never  let  it  go.  She  had  held  it 
tightly,  even  when  bidding  Dunham  good-by. 
And  after  he  had  gone  her  fingers  still  closed 
upon  the  check  in  a  vise-like  grip,  as  a  miser's 
hand  grasps  his  gold  in  the  presence  of  an 
other. 

But  Stephen  had  not  picked  up  his  share  of 
the  treasure-trove.  The  magic  strip  of  pink 
paper  which  he  had  accepted  in  exchange  for 
his  own  flesh  and  blood  still  lay  upon  the  table 
in  front  of  him.  He  looked  down  at  it  curi 
ously.  He  had  suddenly  conceived  an  aversion 
to  touching  it.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  the 
transaction  in  a  clear  light.  The  check  seemed 
polluted — something  unclean  that  he  dreaded 
to  come  in  contact  with.  For  a  moment  he  was 
tempted  to  rush  after  Dunham;  to  call  him 
back ;  to  tell  him  that  the  whole  affair  was  mon- 


90    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

strous;  that  it  must  not  be.  But  one  look  at 
his  wife,  with  her  flushed  face  and  a  steely  glit 
ter  in  her  eyes,  convinced  him  of  the  absurdity 
of  such  an  act.  The  thing  was  done.  It  was 
irrevocable.  They  had  accepted  the  terms ;  the 
money  had  been  paid.  And  now  all  was  over — 
all  except  the  part  Elizabeth  was  to  play  in  the 
affair.  For  it  was  Elizabeth  who  must  suffer 
— prettyy  innocent  Elizabeth.  He  shuddered 
as  he  realized  what  he  had  done  and  he  won 
dered  for  an  instant  whether  God  would  forgive 
him. 

IV 

Craig  Clifton  rose  and  bade  Mrs.  Ferris 
good-by.  Stephen,  conscious  of  a  sudden  de 
sire  to  quit  the  room — to  escape  from  the  scene 
of  the  hateful  transaction — left  Margaret  and 
accompanied  the  lawyer  on  his  way  out  of  the 
house. 

Clifton  was  feeling  very  well  pleased  with  his 
morning 's  work.  It  was,  to  be  sure,  something 
of  a  breach  of  legal  etiquette  to  negotiate  any 


GIVING   AND    TAKING       91 

business  at  a  client's  house.  But  the  charge 
he  intended  making  on  account  of  his  services 
would  more  than  indemnify  him  for  any  possi 
ble  loss  of  dignity. 

As  they  went  down  the  stairs  the  butler 
opened  the  front  door  to  admit  a  young  girl 
who  entered  quickly  and  waited  until  they 
should  descend  the  remaining  steps. 

When  she  kissed  Ferris,  Clifton  knew  that  it 
was  Elizabeth. 

"Mr.  Clifton — my  daughter,"  his  client  said. 
They  shook  hands — Elizabeth  and  the  young 
lawyer — and  the  realization  came  over  Clifton 
with  a  sudden  shock  that  he  had  just  taken  part 
in  a  very  reprehensible  affair.  He  felt  terribly 
guilty  under  the  cordial  greeting  of  the  fresh- 
faced  girl. 

It  struck  Elizabeth,  in  the  brief  time  that 
they  stood  there,  that  both  her  father  and  Mr. 
Clifton  looked  at  her  in  a  most  curious  way — 
her  father  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  did  not  want  to  be  seen  looking,  and  his  com 
panion  in  a  very  odd  way,  as  if  he  pitied  her. 


92    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

His  face  was  very  grave,  she  thought,  and  yet 
there  was  a  kindness,  a  tenderness,  a  friendli 
ness  in  both  his  voice  and  his  manner  which 
made  her  feel  instinctively  that  she  liked  him. 
She  wondered  how  old  he  was. 

As  he  looked  upon  her  delicate,  flower-like 
youth  and  reflected  how  her  beauty  had  been 
bartered  in  the  room  above  Clifton  was  sensible 
of  overwhelming  shame.  And  his  heart  went 
out  to  her  as  to  a  child  whom  some  dreadful 
peril  threatened. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  Clifton  saw 
her,  but  she  occupied  his  mind  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  else  as  he  went  back  to  his  down  town  of 
fice.  As  for  a  fee  for  his  part  in  the  contempti 
ble  business,  the  mere  thought  of  such  a  thing 
nauseated  him.  Faugh!  Blood-money!  that 
was  what  it  would  be.  He  would  have  none  of 
it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   CLOSED   DOOR 
I 

THE  last  of  the  wedding  guests  had  gone. 
Stephen  Ferris  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief  as  he 
entered  his  bed-room,  and  fervently  thanked 
God  that  the  pious  business  was  finished.  Yes ! 
it  was  all  over!  He  could  breathe  again. 
There  would  be  no  more  unpleasant  interviews 
with  insistent  creditors — no  more  importuning 
letters  from  impatient  tradesmen — and  (best  of 
all)  no  more  harrowing  scenes  with  Margaret! 
Why  should  he  care  what  people  thought? 
He  had  detected  a  touch  of  irony  in  many  of  the 
honied  speeches  that  had  fallen  upon  his  ears 
that  night.  And  one  of  the  * '  yellows ' '  had  been 
quite  outspoken  in  its  comments  upon  the  mar 
riage,  insinuating  only  too  plainly  that  having 
bought  boards  of  directors  and  judges  and  leg- 

93 


94    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

islatures,  Dunham  was  at  last  buying  himself  a 
wife.  Ferris  smiled  grimly  as  he  recalled  the 
tell-tale  faces  of  some  of  his  guests.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  many  of  the  fond  mammas 
were  carrying  bleeding  hearts  home  with  them, 
for  the  match-making  instinct  of  matrons  with 
marriageable  daughters  is  too  deeply  implanted 
not  to  plunge  its  owners  often  into  a  hell  of  jeal 
ousy. 

He  could  hear  his  wife  moving  about  in  her 
room.  Margaret  had  been  radiant  that  night. 
It  was  years  since  Stephen  had  seen  her  appear 
to  such  advantage.  She  had  cast  off  almost 
miraculously  the  burdensome  shroud  of  worry 
that  had  enveloped  her  for  so  many  months,  and 
had  beamed  upon  all  comers  alike  with  a  coun 
tenance  that  seemed  never  to  have  worn  a  frown 
of  perplexity.  Ferris  knocked  at  the  door  that 
joined  and  yet  separated  their  rooms ;  and  upon 
hearing  her  answering  "Come!"  he  entered. 

Margaret  had  not  begun  to  undress.  She  was 
standing  before  her  pier-glass,  gazing  at  her 
reflection  with  no  little  satisfaction.  The  news 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR          95 

of  Elizabeth's  engagement  to  Dunham  had  im 
mediately  changed  the  temper  of  the  Fifth  Ave 
nue  costumers.  A  flood  of  engraved  announce 
ments  had  invited  Margaret  to  see  the  latest 
Paris  models,  imported  by  mesdames  with  Irish 
surnames,  and  French  gentlemen — Henris  and 
Georges  and  Eaouls — with  no  surnames  at  all. 
And  Margaret  had  graciously  permitted  a  few 
— the  fortunate  ones — to  practice  their  arts 
upon  her  matronly  figure.  Bound  her  neck 
hung  a  rope  of  pearls, — a  recent  acquisition.  It 
was  the  gift  of  the  groom — an  unconventional 
offering — to  his  future  mother-in-law.  Dun 
ham, — with  the  uncanny  foresight  which  invari 
ably  characterized  his  moves,  and  had  helped 
him  mightily  to  make  his  way  in  the  world — 
had  divined  that  he  had  best  make  Margaret 
Ferris  his  friend.  The  money  consideration, 
he  realized,  was  purely  a  business  matter.  But 
jewels  bestowed  upon  a  woman — ah !  there  was 
some  sentiment  attached  to  such  an  act.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  Ferris  was  weaker  than  his 
wife.  She  dominated  him.  And  Dunham  con- 


96    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

sidered  it  politic  to  ally  himself  with  the 
stronger  faction.  That  was  usually  his  way. 
Who  knew  but  that  some  day  his  house  might  be 
divided? 

"Well!  it's  done!"  Stephen  said  slowly,  as  he 
dropped  into  a  seat. 

"Yes,"  she  rejoined,  still  viewing  herself  in 
the  mirror,  turning  now  this  way  and  now  that, 
in  preening,  peacock  fashion.  "Yes — but  why 
so  mournful,  Steve?  One  would  imagine  that 
you  had  just  come  from  a  funeral.  I  should 
think  you  had  as  good  reason  to  feel  cheerful  as 
a  man  ever  had  in  this  world  of  sin  and  credi 
tors." 

"Oh,  well!"  Steve  answered  testily,  "I'm 
glad  enough  to  be  safely  off  the  rocks,  with 
plain  sailing  ahead.  But  now  that  it's  all  over 
and  Elizabeth's  gone  I  can't  help  wonder 
ing.  ..."  He  paused,  and  in  the  interval  his 
wife  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  him  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  entered  her  bed-room. 

"Wondering  .  .  .  what?"  she  inquired  with 
asperity. 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR          97 

"Oh !  just  what  it's  all  going  to  mean  for  her. 
If  she  had  married  some  chap  of  her  own  age, 
— young  Jessup,  or  Tom  Waring's  boy,  for  in 
stance — someone  she  was  in  love  with,  I'd  feel 
a  lot  easier  about  her. ' ' 

Margaret's  hands  ceased  toying  with  her 
pearls.  She  moved  nearer  her  husband  and 
peered  at  him  intently  as  he  sat  there  with 
bowed  head. 

"Well !  you  are  a  sentimental  old  fool,  Steve," 
she  said.  "I  didn't  think  it  of  you.  You'll 
be  sending  Dunham's  money  back  to  him  next, 
I  suppose." 

"Good  God!  but  you're  hard,  Margaret.  I 
don't  believe  you  care  a  rap  whether  Elizabeth's 
happy  or  not. ' ' 

Margaret  laughed. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Steve,"  she  said.  "Of 
course  I  care.  But  why  shouldn't  she  be 
happy?  She's  a  lucky  girl.  There  isn't  any 
thing  that  she  can't  have.  She  need  never 
worry  about  money  as  long  as  she  lives.  And 
Dunham  will  be  good  to  her.  He's  generous, 


98    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

Steve. ' '  And  she  looked  down  at  her  necklace. 
* '  See  what  he  did  for  me !  Any  man  who  would 
remember  his  wife's  family  so  handsomely 
won't  stint  his  own." 

"Look  here,  Margaret!  Money  isn't  every 
thing.  It's  all  very  well  in  its  way;  but  it 
won't  buy  happiness." 

Margaret  Ferris  shrugged  her  shoulders  as 
she  turned  again  to  the  pier-glass. 

"Your  early  training  again,  Steve!  You've 
told  me  that  your  grandfather  used  to  talk  to 
you  about  honor,  and  business  integrity  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing — as  if  they  were  all  that  was 
worth  while.  But  he  never  said  anything  about 
money!  I  tell  you,  money  is  power!  Nobody 
can  accomplish  anything  without  it.  There 
were  some  things  your  grandfather  didn't  know. 
If  he  were  alive  I  could  teach  him — well,  if  not 
how  to  suck  eggs,  at  least  a  few  truths  that 
would  make  him  open  his  eyes ! ' ' 

' '  I  dare  say, ' '  Stephen  answered  drily.  '  *  And 
since,  as  you  imply,  my  early  education  was  so 
faulty,  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  agree  upon 


THE    CLOSED    DOOR          99 

some  points.  We  '11  never  see  things  alike.  All 
I  can  say  is  that  I  hope  we'll  never  have  cause 
to  regret  this  affair.  .  .  .  Good-night!" 

1 1  Good-night,  Steve !  And  for  goodness '  sake, 
cheer  up!  You'll  live  to  bless  the  day  Ralph 
Dunham  came  to  us." 

n 

It  was  a  two-hour  run  from  the  Ferris'  coun 
try  place  to  the  Marwood  Inn.  Dunham's  big 
French  car  had  whisked  the  bride  and  groom 
away  in  the  moonlight,  leaving  the  guests  to 
linger  and  make  merry  at  their  leisure.  Neither 
Elizabeth  nor  her  husband  felt  at  ease.  It  was 
hard  for  them  both  to  realize  that  they  were 
actually  married.  Bushing  along  the  country 
roads,  with  the  soft  nightwind  against  their 
faces,  they  spoke  but  little.  Dunham  took  her 
hand  in  his  and  stroked  it  softly.  There  had 
been  no  love-making  during  their  brief  engage 
ment  ;  and  now  there  was  a  vague  something  in 
his  wife 's  attitude  that  kept  Dunham  from  slip 
ping  his  arm  about  her  and  drawing  her  close 


100    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

to  him.  He  wanted  to  feel  her  young,  supple 
body  against  him,  and  he  longed  to  breathe  in 
the  freshness  of  her  smooth  skin.  But  he  could 
wait.  He  had  waited  for  many  things  in  life. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  car  came  to  a  halt 
in  front  of  the  hotel  and  Dunham  helped  his 
bride  out  of  the  tonneau.  The  moon  was  still 
high  and  from  their  vantage  point  on  the  bluff 
they  looked  down  upon  the  lake  as  it  reached 
away  to  the  north,  flanked  upon  both  sides  by 
mountains  which  rose  sheer  and  rugged  from 
the  wave-lapped  shores.  Dunham's  pulse 
quickened  as  he  took  in  the  prospect.  He  felt 
strangely  young  again. 

"It's  beautiful — isn't  it,  dear!"  he  said. 

*  *  Like  fairy-land ! ' '  Elizabeth  answered.  She 
too  was  entranced  by  the  picture.  The  setting 
was  all  the  most  imaginative  maiden  could  have 
dreamed  of  for  her  honeymoon. 

Her  honeymoon!  Ah!  yes.  She  was  in 
fairyland — but  where  was  the  fairy-prince? 
Was  that  he  by  her  side — that  bulky  figure, 
swathed  in  the  loose  great-coat  which  flapped 


THE    CLOSED    DOOR         101 

unromantically  in  the  cool  breeze  that  swept 
chillingly  from  the  lake?  Did  some  such  ques 
tion  enter  her  mind  as  they  stood  there  during 
that  short  space?  At  all  events,  Elizabeth 
looked  at  her  husband;  and  as  she  looked  she 
shivered  slightly.  Dunham  noticed  the  invok 
untary  shudder. 

' '  Come !  You  're  cold ! "  he  exclaimed,  kindly 
enough.  " Let's  go  inside." 

"Oh!  it's  nothing,"  she  told  him  hastily,  as 
they  turned  toward  the  inn.  It  was  not  the 
sharp  wind  that  had  caused  the  brief  tremor, 
for  she  was  warmly  wrapped.  But  in  spite  of 
herself  she  had  suddenly  felt  a  touch  of  nerv 
ousness.  Of  course,  she  and  Dunham  under 
stood  each  other  perfectly.  And  she  trusted 
him.  He  had  been  very  kind.  But  what  girl 
would  not  experience  at  least  some  faint  qualm 
of  uneasiness  at  such  a  time? 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you're  all  right?"  Dun 
ham  asked. 

"Oh!  yes.  It's  nothing  at  all.  The  air  is 
different  here — it's  much  higher — up  among 


102    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

these  old  mountains."  And  in  a  moment  more 
they  had  entered  the  great  hall  of  the  big  sum 
mer  hostelry. 

Except  for  employes  the  place  was  almost 
deserted.  Dunham  found  a  chair  for  Elizabeth 
where  she  waited  while  he  spoke  with  the  clerk 
at  the  desk.  Soon  he  joined  her  again. 

"The  cafe  is  still  open  downstairs,"  he  ex 
plained.  * '  Let  me  give  your  coat  to  the  boy  and 
he'll  put  it  in  our  suite  while  we  go  down  and 
have  a  bite  to  eat.  You  must  be  hungry,  after 
that  long  ride." 

m 

In  the  restaurant  a  few  guests  were  still  lin 
gering.  Dunham  ordered  supper,  and  picking 
up  the  wine-list  said — 

"You  must  have  something  to  make  you 
warm.  What  shall  it  be?  A  little  brandy 
would  be  good  for  you  first,  I  think." 

But  she  would  take  nothing. 

"But  you  must  be  tired,"  he  told  her.    "A 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR         103 

glass  of  champagne — you'll  drink  that, 
surely.  ..." 

She  smiled  at  him  across  the  table  and  shook 
her  head. 

"No,  thank  you,  Ealph.  I  don't  feel  like  it 
to-night,"  she  said. 

So  Dunham  ordered  himself  a  whiskey-and- 
soda;  and  the  waiter  hurried  away. 

It  seemed  to  Elizabeth  that  she  could  never 
swallow  a  mouthful  again.  It  was  silly  of  her, 
she  knew ;  but  the  muscles  of  her  throat  seemed 
to  have  tightened  and  she  had  hard  work  to  sit 
there  calmly  and  smile,  and  talk  to  her  husband. 
There  was  a  strange  sensation  of  weakness 
about  her  knees.  She  had  a  peculiar  feeling 
that  her  soul  had  entered  some  other  person's 
body,  which  had  brought  her  with  the  man  Dun 
ham  thither  to  that  strange  place. 

Just  what  happened  during  that  little  supper 
— their  first  meal  together — Elizabeth  could 
never  quite  remember.  Perhaps  the  events 
that  followed  so  swiftly  upon  it  drove  from  her 


104    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

mind  everything  that  immediately  preceded 
them. 

She  retained  a  hazy  recollection  of  stepping 
out  of  an  elevator  into  one  of  the  halls  above 
and  waiting  for  a  moment  before  a  door  while 
somebody  fumbled  at  the  lock.  And  then  the 
door  was  swung  open.  Within  was  inky  black 
ness;  and  she  hesitated  on  the  threshold  until 
a  sudden  click  of  a  button  flooded  the  place  with 
light. 

" Good-night,  sir!  Thank  you,  sir!"  she 
heard  someone  say,  and  the  door  closed  softly. 
When  Dunham  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  she 
strangled  a  sudden  impulse  to  scream. 

IV 

They  were  alone  in  the  parlor  of  the  suite; 
and  in  the  chamber  that  opened  out  of  it  Eliza 
beth  saw  two  white  beds  side  by  side.  There 
were  no  more  rooms. 

Dunham  hung  his  motoring  cap  in  the  ward 
robe;  while  Elizabeth  slowly  removed  her  veil 
and  hat  and  laid  them  upon  the  dresser.  As 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR         105 

she  looked  into  the  mirror  she  saw  that  there 
were  shadows  under  her  eyes,  and  that  her  lips 
were  pale.  And  a  horrid  fear  gripped  her. 
She  had  trusted  Ealph.  .  .  .  She  had  explained 
to  him.  .  .  .  And  now  the  aspect  of  the  suite 
alarmed  her. 

Dunham  noticed  her  agitated  breathing  and 
he  saw  her  hand  pressed  violently  against  her 
throbbing  heart. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  with  solicitude. 
"Are  you  ill,  my  dear1?  Tell  me!" 

She  smiled  at  him  sadly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Something's  the  trouble — something's 
wrong,"  he  insisted.  "You  must  tell  me — you 
must  trust  me — to  take  care  of  you  now  and  see 
that  nothing  harms  you." 

4 ' I — I  have  trusted  you, ' '  she  said.  ' '  There 's 
nothing  really  the  matter  with  me — except  I 
dare  say  I'm  tired."  And  then,  without  any 
warning,  she  fell  into  a  spasm  of  weeping. 

Dunham  was  genuinely  distressed.  He  bent 
over  her  anxiously. 

"There,     there!    Don't     cry!"     he     said. 


106    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

"You're  completely  fagged  out.  The  wedding 
was  too  much  for  you.  It  was  a  nervous  strain. 
But  it's  all  over  now  and  there's  going  to  be 
nothing  more  to  worry  about." 

His  words  both  relieved  and  reassured  her. 

"You're  good  to  me,"  she  said,  drying  her 
tears.  ' '  I  knew  you  would  be  good  to  me.  But 
perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand  me.  I — 
I  didn't  say  anything  about  it — I  thought  you'd 
know.  Please  don't  feel  hurt  by  what  I'm  go 
ing  to  say.  But  I  really  thought  you  would  get 
me  a  room  of  my  own.  I  thought  you'd  un 
derstand  that — that  while  we'd  see  a  great  deal 
of  each  other,  and  go  about  together,  and  be 
good  friends,  you  would  not  expect  any  more 
from  me  than  from  a  friend  or  a  sister.  And 
I  know  you  don't,  of  course.  And  so,  when  I 
came  into  the  suite  and  saw  what  it  was  like  I 
couldn't  understand.  I  don't  understand 
now."  She  turned  to  him  appealingly.  Tears 
still  trembled  in  her  eyes  and  her  anxious  face 
betrayed  the  fear  under  which  she  labored. 

Dunham  listened  to  her  in  amazement.     He 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR         107 

could  scarcely  credit  what  his  own  ears  heard. 
And  before  he  could  gather  his  scattered  wits 
and  speak,  a  wild  rage  swept  over  him — a  fierce, 
mad  anger,  not  for  the  frail  girl  alone  with  him, 
but  against  society  for  its  stupid  education  of 
children ;  against  Stephen  and  Margaret  Ferris 
for  having  reared  their  daughter  in  ignorance. 
It  was  indeed  true  that  Elizabeth's  up-bringing 
had  been  not  merely  one  of  silences  but  even 
suppressions.  And  Dunham  recognized  in  a 
sudden  flash  of  understanding  that  she  had  vir 
tually  no  conception  of  the  physical  life  of  a 
man  and  a  woman.  It  was  all  a  sealed  book  to 
her. 

Poor,  ignorant,  innocent,  unhappy  creature! 
His  anger  ebbed  as  quickly  as  it  came  as  he  re 
garded  her  compassionately. 

" Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said  gravely,  "by 
the  questions  I'm  going  to  ask  you.  You  ex 
pected  a  separate  room,  I  take  it,  as  a  natural 
consequence  of  the  l freedom*  for  which  you 
stipulated  when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me.  Is 
that  not  so?  Yes?  I  see.  We  understand 


108    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

each  other,  now,  or  at  least  /  understand  you. 
This  marriage,  then,  that  we  have  entered  into, 
is  really  no  marriage  at  all.  It 's  a  sort  of  con 
tract,  more  oral  than  written, — what  we  call  in 
business  a  *  gentlemen's  agreement' — the  condi 
tions  of  which  may  or  may  not  be  changed  in 
the  course  of  time." 

Elizabeth  did  not  see  why  he  should  rehearse 
the  terms  of  their  partnership,  but  she  nodded 
her  affirmation  of  his  statement.  Nor  could 
she  fathom  the  strange  look  that  he  gave  her. 

"Am  I  repulsive  to  you?"  he  asked  her  ab 
ruptly.  "Do  I  fill  you  with  repugnance?  Tell 
me,  in  all  frankness ;  for  if  I  do  I  would  not  in 
flict  myself — even  my  occasional  presence — 
upon  you  any  longer." 

Elizabeth  stared  at  him  wonderingly.  She 
was  sitting  upon  one  of  the  beds  now,  while 
Dunham  slowly  paced  the  floor  in  front  of  her. 

"Tell  me  how  you  really  feel  toward  me," 
he  urged. 

There  was  no  fear  in  her  face  now — only  a 
mild  and  trusting  look  of  comradeship,  such  as 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR         109 

a  child  might  bestow  upon  someone  in  whose 
care  he  had  been  placed.  Dunham  winced  un 
der  it.  It  was  not  the  look  a  man  expects  to 
receive  from  his  bride. 

"How  I  feel  toward  you?"  she  repeated. 
' '  What  a  queer  question,  Ealph.  Well — I  '11  tell 
you,  though  you  must  know  already.  I  look  on 
you  as  my  best  friend,  as  someone  who  will  al 
ways  be  good  to  me — kind,  gentle,  considerate ; 
as  a  pleasant  companion;  a  chum  to  go  about 
with." 

"Bather  a  Platonic  sort  of  affair — this  mar 
riage  of  ours — don't  you  think?"  he  inquired 
bitterly. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  But  of  course,  we  both 
understood  that  in  the  beginning,"  she  replied. 

He  had  not  the  "heart  to  enlighten  her,  then. 
He  could  not  tell  her  that  their  different  concep 
tions  of  life  had  betrayed  them  into  the  grossest 
of  follies.  Was  it  a  just  punishment  for  him — 
a  sort  of  ironical  justice  meted  out  to  him  be 
cause  he  had  been  willing  to  enter  into  a  barren 
marriage  ? 


110    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

"So  you  like  me — as  a  chaperon — so  long  as 
I  keep  within  certain  bounds  I ' ' 

She  smiled  at  his  description  of  himself,  for 
she  did  not  guess  the  struggle  that  was  going 
on  beneath  his  outer  calm. 

"That's  it — precisely,"  she  admitted.  "I 
shall  like  to  feel  that  you  're  where  I  can  always 
find  you,  if  I  need  you.  I  shall  like  to  know 
that  you  are  not  far  away  from  me — and  yet  not 
too  near.  It's  a  strange  attitude,  perhaps, 
though  I  should  think  many  women  would  feel 
that  way  toward  their  husbands.  I — I  couldn't 
have  you  hold  me  so  that  I  couldn't  slip  away. 
That's  the  sort  of  freedom  that  I  can't  give  up." 

He  nodded.  "Well — far  be  it  from  him  to  seek 
to  deprive  her  of  that  freedom  to  which  she  be 
lieved  he  had  agreed.  He  must  have  time  to 
think.  The  situation  was  impossible — intoler 
able.  He  felt  stifled  all  at  once — choking. 
There  flashed  across  his  mind  the  remembrance 
of  a  fight  of  his  younger  days,  when  a  man's 
fingers  had  closed  round  his  throat  in  an  iron 
grip.  He  shuddered  involuntarily.  He  had  not 


THE    CLOSED   DOOR         111 

been  beaten  then ;  but  now  he  had  gone  down  to 
defeat  before  a  slip  of  a  girl.  He  could  have 
sworn  at  himself  in  his  impotent  anger.  But 
he  only  said  to  his  bride — 

' '  This  is  stupid — this  mistake  about  our  suite. 
But  it's  easily  remedied.  There's  a  lounge  out 
side  in  the  parlor.  I'll  be  all  right.  So — good 
night!  You  have  everything  you  need?  Good! 
Good-night!" 

Dunham  shifted  the  key  of  the  connecting 
door  to  the  keyhole  on  the  bedroom  side.  It 
was  a  spring-lock,  and  as  he  went  out  he  closed 
the  door  firmly  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NOT  STRICTLY  ACCORDING  TO  PROGRAM 

I 

IN  the  parlor  of  the  apartment  Dunham  passed 
a  wakeful  night.  He  tried  to  consider  the  situa 
tion  calmly;  but  now  and  again  a  wave  of  hot 
resentment  surged  over  him  and  it  required  all 
his  strength  to  stifle  the  impulse  to  shout  out  so 
that  all  the  world  might  hear ;  to  cry  aloud  that 
he  had  been  victimized — cheated  of  his  just  due 
— that  his  manhood  had  been  betrayed.  He  felt 
tricked — caught  beyond  any  chance  of  escape 
in  the  relentless  jaws  of  a  trap  which  had  been 
partly  of  his  own  forging.  Again  and  again  he 
crushed  down  his  man's  craving  for  violent  ac 
tion,  which  was  but  nature's  attempt  to  supply 
a  vent  for  his  seething  emotions.  And  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night  he  came  at  last  to  a  saner 
view  of  his  dilemma. 


NOT   ON   THE   PROGRAM    113 

Would  Elizabeth's  attitude  change  as  time 
went  on?  The  disgust  and  dread  with  which 
she  obviously  regarded  the  vital  facts  of  exist 
ence — would  they  ever  give  way  to  the  natural 
attitude  of  a  normal  woman?  He  wondered. 
It  was  a  riddle  that  was  beyond  his  capacity  to 
solve.  Suppose  her  peculiar  perversion  of  in 
stinct  were  unalterable?  Could  he  go  on 
through  the  years  hoping  nothing,  expecting 
nothing?  What  effect  would  her  tempera 
mental  insufficiency  have  upon  them  both?  He 
could  not  even  guess,  as  he  sat  before  the  fire 
place  until  the  gray  light  began  to  creep  in 
through  the  shutters,  while  he  watched  the  ashes 
gently  dropping  from  the  dying  fire. 

n 

They  had  planned  to  spend  two  days  at  Mar- 
wood;  but  for  Dunham  any  longer  stop  at  that 
now  hateful  place  was  impossible.  He  experi 
enced  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  flee  from  the 
scene  of  his  horrid  awakening — to  leave  it  be 
hind — never  to  see  again  the  spot  where  his 


114    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

newly-built  air-castle  had  tumbled  about  his 
ears.  At  breakfast  he  suggested  moving  on 
and  Elizabeth,  refreshed  and  smiling  after  a 
good  night's  sleep,  agreed  promptly  to  the 
change  of  programme. 

So  Dunham  ordered  the  car  and  they  traveled 
on.  That  day  was  typical  of  many  others  that 
followed,  made  up  of  hours  of  scurrying  over 
hill  and  valley.  Dunham,  who  had  always 
hitherto  preferred  to  be  driven  slowly,  now  de 
veloped  a  mania  for  speed.  It  gave  him  a 
strange  sense  of  relief  from  the  tension  that 
strung  all  his  nerves  taut  until  it  seemed  to  him 
that  something  would  snap  within  him.  Con 
tinually  he  urged  the  chauffeur  on  until  that 
careful  driver,  marveling  at  the  change  of  tem 
per  that  had  come  over  his  employer,  registered 
a  vow  never  to  pilot  another  bridal  couple  along 
the  path  of  their  honeymoon.  The  poor  fellow 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  whenever  they  turned 
in  at  a  hotel  for  a  meal  or  a  night's  lodging. 
The  mad  pace  at  which  Dunham  made  him  send 
the  car  flying  down  the  New  England  hills  was 


NOT    ON    THE    PROGRAM    115 

often  really  dangerous.  It  was  not  so  bad  when 
they  kept  to  the  main  roads ;  but  sometimes  the 
whim  seized  Dunham  to  shun  the  more  traveled 
highways  and  then  with  undiminished  speed 
they  jolted  and  rattled  their  way  over  ruts  and 
stones  in  a  fashion  that  made  Elizabeth's  heart 
jump  with  alarm.  But  her  husband  did  not  no 
tice  her  consternation. 

So  they  traveled  on,  up  through  the  Connecti 
cut  Valley,  across  the  White  Mountains,  then 
into  Maine,  and  Canada.  But  hurry  as  he 
would,  Ealph  Dunham  could  not  escape  from 
the  nightmare  that  had  fastened  itself  upon  him. 
And  his  mood  at  last  underwent  a  change. 
From  a  desire  to  avoid  contact  with  other  peo 
ple  he  was  sensible  of  a  need  of  companionship. 
He  felt  that  he  must  be  with  men — that  he  must 
talk  with  them  and  drink  with  them  and  smoke 
with  them — with  fellow-creatures  whom  he  un 
derstood  and  who  were  sane.  For  he  began  to 
have  doubts  of  his  own  sanity. 

Elizabeth,  too,  found  their  lone  companion 
ship  depressing.  It  was  all  too  anomalous, 


116    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

though  she  did  not  guess  the  reason.  They 
were  wed  and  yet  not  wed.  They  were  attempt 
ing  something  that  was  an  enormity  for  a  man 
and  a  woman  physically  healthy  and  mentally 
sane.  And  upon  them  both  descended  an  un 
rest  such  as  neither  had  ever  known  before. 
And  yet  they  tired  of  the  constant  rushing  hel 
ter-skelter  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

And  then  the  whim  seized  Dunham  to  go 
abroad.  His  yacht,  the  Nomad,  was  in  commis 
sion,  lying  then  at  Newport,  awaiting  his  or 
ders  ;  for  he  had  half  intended  to  have  it  meet 
him  at  some  point  along  the  coast.  But  now  he 
quailed  at  the  very  thought  of  a  solitary  cruise 
with  his  wife.  Inquiry  disclosed  the  fact  that  a 
liner  was  about  to  sail  from  Montreal  and  the 
Dunhams  caught  it  on  the  eve  of  its  departure. 

The  first  stage  of  their  strange  honeymoon 
was  finished. 


CHAPTER  X 

FACING  FACTS 

I 

ALONG  with  thousands  of  other  home-comers, 
September  brought  the  Dunhams  back  to  New 
York.  Ralph  had  not  allowed  his  wife  to  know 
of  the  misunderstanding  that  had  existed  be 
tween  them  previous  to  that  unforgettable  night 
at  Marwood — the  first  night  after  their  wed 
ding.  He  had  made  a  firm  resolve  that  he 
would  not  disillusion  Elizabeth  while  her  honey 
moon  lasted.  How  long  thereafter  could  he  si 
lently  endure  the  situation?  He  did  not  know. 
He  could  not  guess.  He  was  aware  only  of  an 
enormous  loneliness  from  which  he  could  not 
escape.  The  trying  weeks  which  had  elapsed 
since  his  marriage  had  changed  him  strangely. 
Before,  he  had  always  been  self-sufficient.  It 
had  made  no  difference  in  his  happiness  whether 

117 


118    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

he  was  with  others  or  not;  whether  he  found 
his  associates  congenial  or  not.  He  was  not 
like  so  many  people  who  are  miserable  when 
they  are  alone,  or  who  are  wretched  when  they 
are  thrown  in  with  individuals  they  dislike ;  who 
have  no  capacity  for  self-reliance.  But  now — 
as  never  before  during  his  lifetime — he  felt 
terribly  alone. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  at  the  same 
time  so  near  and  yet  so  far  from  her  who  should 
have  been  closest  and  dearest  to  him.  He  had 
not  thought,  at  first,  that  the  restraint  imposed 
upon  him  would  prove  so  difficult  to  endure.  In 
the  beginning  he  had  regarded  Elizabeth  merely 
as  a  pretty,  attractive  child.  She  had  had  no 
real  place  in  his  thoughts — much  less  in  his 
affections.  But  since  they  had  been  together 
his  attitude  toward  her  had  undergone  a 
change.  Her  personality,  only  half-fathomed 
by  him  as  it  was,  piquing  his  interest  at  first, 
had  gradually  come  to  claim  a  large  place  in  his 
imagination.  He  had  thought,  after  the  first 
shock  of  the  denouement  at  Marwood,  that  life 


FACING    FACTS  119 

with  her  on  a  Platonic  basis  was  possible  for 
him.  But  as  time  went  on  he  was  not  content. 
He  could  not  divert  his  thoughts  from  the  shy 
creature  he  had  captured  but  whose  confidence 
he  had  not.  He  lay  awake  during  long,  dreary 
nights  until  he  actually  ground  his  teeth  in  a 
frenzy  of  despair.  Never  before  had  he  known 
what  it  was  to  be  afraid.  He  both  feared  and 
hated  the  desolate  silence  of  the  night,  unbroken 
by  so  much  as  a  whisper  of  her  whom  he  at  last 
told  himself  he  loved. 

Yes!  the  miracle  had  happened!  He  loved 
the  sweet,  timid,  innocent  girl  that  God  had 
given  him  and  yet  withheld  from  him.  He 
longed  to  catch  her  in  his  eager  embrace  and 
hold  her  close,  knowing  that  she  belonged  to 
him  and  him  alone.  Whenever  she  shyly  turned 
her  long-lashed  child-like  eyes  to  his  he  felt  a 
strange  thrill,  such  as  he  had  never  known  be 
fore.  He  watched  her  lips  when  she  spoke  to 
him ;  and  he  longed  to  draw  her  tenderly  to  him 
and  kiss  her  fresh  young  mouth. 

But  all  such  caresses  were  forbidden  him. 


120    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

He  knew  it — knew  it  with  a  tragic  conviction. 
And  Dunham  mastered  himself.  He  could 
only  hover  about  her  and  drink  in  her  loveli 
ness  with  longing  eyes.  Beyond  that  he  could 
not  go;  for  he  had  quickly  discovered  that  his 
smallest  advance  sent  her  quivering  away  from 
him.  She  recoiled  from  the  merest  touch  of  his 
hand.  And  after  he  had  seen  her  shrink  from 
him  a  few  times  he  had  studiously  avoided  the 
slightest  contact  with  her. 

So  he  lived  with  her — lived  with  her  and  still 
without  her — tortured  by  the  most  exquisite 
agony. 

ii 

A  fortnight  in  New  York  brought  Dunham  to 
the  breaking  point.  His  nerves  began  playing 
him  odd  tricks.  He  slept  less  and  less.  After 
nights  of  restless  tossing  he  rose  each  succeed 
ing  morning  wearier  than  he  had  been  the  day 
before.  His  business  affairs  no  longer  inter 
ested  him.  Unwillingly  he  went  to  his  Wall 
Street  office  and  forced  himself  to  take  up  such 


FACING    FACTS  121 

matters  as  demanded  his  attention.  But  his 
mind  seemed  to  have  lost  its  old-time  faculty  for 
quick  and  decisive  dealing.  He  had  difficulty 
even  in  grasping  the  salient  features  of  a  proj 
ect.  For  his  thoughts  constantly  reverted  to 
the  slender  girl  who  had  claimed  his  heart, 
though  withholding  hers  from  him. 

To  cap  the  climax,  one  day  Dunham  made  a 
colossal  blunder.  It  was  a  matter  involving  the 
control  of  a  railroad,  a  connecting  link  between 
two  of  his  Western  lines  which  he  had  been  try 
ing  for  years  to  capture.  At  last  the  thing  was 
virtually  in  his  grasp.  Before  he  could  put  out 
his  hand  and  lay  claim  to  the  property  as  his 
there  remained  only  one  move.  And  that  last 
strategic  play  he  bungled  hopelessly.  The  dam 
age  was  done  almost  before  he  knew  it  and  he 
saw  the  work  of  years  rendered  futile. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  loss  of  the  millions  of 
money  that  startled  him.  He  had  lost  his  grip 
— that  was  what  appalled  him.  He  was  a  Sam 
son  shorn  of  his  locks.  And  like  Samson,  his 
wife  was  his  undoing. 


122    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

in 

Dunham  was  thoroughly  alarmed.  His  first 
thought  was  to  see  a  doctor — a  specialist  of 
some  sort.  But  when  he  turned  the  matter  over 
in  his  mind  he  knew  that  no  medical  man  could 
help  him.  His  trouble  lay  hidden  from  the 
reach  of  drugs.  The  malady  was  beyond  the 
help  of  mere  man.  And  he  realized  that  he 
must  fight  the  battle  unaided. 

He  must  go  away.  He  must  leave  Elizabeth. 
The  very  sight  of  her  was  maddening.  To  be 
with  her  was  agony.  He  could  only  try  the 
remedy  of  removing  himself  from  her  presence 
for  a  time,  in  what  he  feared  would  prove  only  a 
futile  effort  to  forget  her. 

So  it  came  about  that  Kalph  Dunham  told  his 
wife  one  evening  that  he  had  been  asked  to  join 
a  party  of  men  who  were  going  on  a  West  Indian 
cruise.  He  saw  with  a  pang  that  she  welcomed 
the  news.  She  even  urged  him  to  go.  And  so 
it  was  settled.  Elizabeth  announced  on  the 
spot  that  she  would  pay  her  parents  a  visit  in 


FACING   FACTS  123 

his   absence.    At  dinner  that  night  she  was 
gayer   than  her   husband   had   seen  her   for 
months. 
Her  laughter  cut  him  to  the  quick. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A   GLIMPSE   OF   THE  REAL 

I 

BACK  again  in  her  father's  house,  Elizabeth 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  At  last  she  had  escaped 
from  her  husband's  irritating  nearness.  It  was 
good  to  feel  that  she  could  move  about  as  she 
chose,  without  his  constant  escort;  that  she 
could  go  down  to  a  meal  rid  of  the  necessity  of 
facing  him  across  the  table  and  making  labored 
efforts  at  conversation.  And  the  knowledge 
that  her  respite  was  to  be  but  brief  made  her 
freedom  all  the  sweeter. 

Her  parents  had  guessed  from  her  letters 
that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be  between  bride 
and  bridegroom.  But  they  had  not  suspected 
the  real  status  of  affairs.  Consequently,  when 
Elizabeth  told  her  mother,  as  she  soon  did,  of 
the  basis  upon  which  she  and  Dunham  had  ar- 

124 


GLIMPSE    OF    THE    REAL    125 

ranged  their  married  life,  Margaret  Ferris' 
eyes  opened  wide  in  astonishment. 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  she  exclaimed,  "didn't 
you  realize  things  in  the  beginning1?  Didn't 
you  understand?" 

"When  I  first  met  him?  No,  I  didn't.  He 
was  nice  to  me  and  kind.  But  I  didn't  know 
then  what  marriage  meant,  and  you  ought  to 
have  told  me.  I  should  have  known  then  that 
I  could  never  be  Ealph  's  wife. ' ' 

"You'll  get  used  to  it." 

"Never,  never,  never!" 

"My  dear,  you  will.  You  must.  You  are  a 
woman,  and  you  must  fulfill  your  destiny.  It 
is  of  no  use  to  try  to  escape  it. ' ' 

"Oh,  Mother,  you  married  the  man  you 
loved." 

"Yes,  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the 
end.  Your  father  lives  his  own  life  and  I  live 
mine.  It's  separation,  none  the  less  for  being 
amicable." 

"Oh,  Mamma!" 

"Hush,  child;  don't  be  silly.    You  have  to 


126    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

know  these  things  now.  Very  few  marriages 
are  happy.  In  most  there's  a  rift  which  makes 
itself  evident  sooner  or  later.  Then,  if  the  peo 
ple  are  well  bred,  they  agree  each  to  go  his  own 
way.  If  they  are  foolish  there 's  a  horrid  quar 
rel,  and  then  another  and  another,  until  it  comes 
to  a  scandal,  and  everything  has  to  be  known  by 
everybody. '  * 

Elizabeth  was  cold  with  horror.  To  hear  that 
her  father  and  mother,  the  two  people  she  loved 
most  in  the  world,  were  not  the  happy  couple 
she  had  always  imagined  them  to  be,  was 
so  shocking  that  it  seemed  to  complete  the 
transformation  of  the  world  from  the 
happy  place  she  had  thought  it  to  a  very 
Gehenna. 

She  sat  down  quickly,  saying  nothing,  but 
feeling  as  if  the  ground  were  giving  way  under 
her  feet.  Where  was  she  to  look  for  comfort, 
for  support,  when  those  she  had  thought  to  lean 
on  failed  her  like  that? 

For  a  little  while  they  were  quite  silent,  Mrs. 
Ferris  walking  to  the  nearest  window  rest- 


GLIMPSE    OF    THE    REAL    127 

lessly  and  looking  out,  and  Elizabeth  leaning  on 
her  hand  without  even  looking  at  her. 

Presently  Margaret  came  back  to  Elizabeth 
and  put  her  hand  on  her  daughter's  shoulder. 

"You  musn't  think  me  unkind,  Elizabeth," 
she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone,  not  like  her  sweet 
"society"  cooing  voice.  "But  believe  me, 
child,  I  know  everything,  and  I  understand 
everything,  and  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  that  it 
should  all  have  come  to  your  knowledge  so  sud 
denly.  ' ' 

"But  why  need  it  have?"  Elizabeth  cried. 
"Why  was  I  brought  up  in  complete  ignorance 
of  facts  that  half  the  world  knows  and  accepts 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course?  It  was  unfair — 
it  was  wrong — it  was  cruelly  wrong!" 

At  this  outburst  Margaret  sat  down  beside 
her  child  and  said  in  her  most  wheedling  and 
confidential  manner — 

"No,  I  couldn't  tell  you  anything.  If  I  had 
it  wouldn't  have  come  off.  One  can  never  tell 
a  girl,  or  she  would  never  make  a  good  mar 
riage." 


128     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

Elizabeth,  shuddered.  How  could  she  use 
such  a  word  to  her  now  I 

"A  good  marriage!"  she  echoed  in  a  dis 
gusted  tone. 

But  Mrs.  Ferris  was  quite  herself  again. 
She  frowned  imperiously  at  her  rebellious  child. 

"Yes,  a  good  marriage,"  she  repeated. 
"There  is  only  one  sort  of  marriage  that  is 
good,  even  tolerable,  and  that  is  marriage  with 
money.  It  is  a  horrible  thing  to  have  to  ac 
knowledge,  but  there  is  no  use  in  blinking  the 
fact.  Marriage,  life  itself,  is  impossible  now 
adays,  without  money ;  and  having  found  a  good 
husband,  a  girl  should  not  think,  when  she  mar 
ries,  that  she  will  have  everything  she  wants 
and  that  there  will  be  nothing  in  life  to  put  up 
with.  That  is  an  impossible  state  of  things. 
There  must  always  be  little  causes  of  disagree 
ment  between  the  most  devoted  husband  and 
wife;  but  the  wise  ones  make  the  best  of  it, 
and  remember  the  reasons  why  they  married, 
and  are  content  with  something  less  than  ideal 
happiness." 


GLIMPSE    OF    THE    REAL    129 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  mother  closely. 

"Why  did  I  marry,  pray  tell  me?"  she  asked. 
"Did  I  want  money  so  much?  Do  you  think 
such  a  thing  as  money  can  compensate  me  for 
being  tied  for  life  to  a  man  who  is  abhorrent  to 
me?  I  can  tell  you  why  I  married  Ralph.  It 
was  simply  and  solely  because  you  and  father 
urged  me  to.  And  now  I  begin  to  see  why. 
Now  I  begin  to  understand.  You — you  were 
the  ones  who  needed  money.  I  have  asked 
Ealph  if  that  is  not  so,  but  he  would  tell  me 
nothing.  I  have  a  right  to  know.  If  he  gave 
you  money  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"Very  well!"  her  mother  said.  "I  would 
rather  not  have  told  you,  but,  as  you  say,  you 
have  a  right  to  know,  and  so  you  shall.  Your 
father's  affairs  were  desperate,  and  he  could 
no  longer  take  care  of  us  in  the  way  we  were 
accustomed  to  live.  There  were  burdens  on 
his  property — mortgages.  They  were  about  to 
fall  due.  And  your  father  not  only  had  no 
money  with  which  to  pay  them  off,  but  he  owed 
everybody — florists,  and  dressmakers,  and 


130     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

butchers,  and  the  whole  hungry  pack.  Then 
Dunham  saw  you  and  fell  in  love  with  you.  And 
he  proposed  for  you  to  your  father.  He  was 
very  generous — let  us  have  all  we  wanted  and 
made  the  handsomest  offers,  so  that,  no  matter 
what  may  happen,  you  will  be  all  right.  There, 
that's  all!" 

"All!"  Elizabeth  exclaimed,  sickened  by  her 
mother's  unblushing  confession.  "So  you  sold 
me — and  never  told  me  a  word  of  the  horrible 
bargain  you  made.  You  deceived  me — oh !  why 
could  you  not  have  told  me  1 " 

"No,  that  was  impossible.  Men  like  Ealph 
Dunham  don't  come  in  one's  way  every  day. 
When  one  does,  and  proposes  marriage,  there  is 
only  one  thing  to  be  done — to  accept  him." 
And  then  she  added,  after  a  moment — "You 
know,  don't  you,  dear,  that  one  can't  bring  up 
young  girls  except  as  one  does?  One  always 
hopes  that  one  may  be  able  to  give  them  every 
thing  to  make  them  happy  without  having  to 
do  violence  to  one's  own  feelings  and  theirs. 


GLIMPSE    OF    THE    REAL    131 

But  then,  when  the  time  comes,  and  one  recog 
nizes  the  truth  that  only  money  can  make  a  mar 
riage  endurable,  why,  one  has  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  and  the  girl,  once  married,  has  to  make 
the  best  of  it  too." 

n 

Sold !  Sold !  The  hopelessness  of  it  all,  and 
the  horror  of  it,  and  the  knowledge  that  she 
could  not  put  things  right  made  Elizabeth  weep 
bitter  tears  in  the  secrecy  of  her  bedroom.  Her 
mother's  revelation  had  left  her  so  lonely,  so 
miserable,  and  so  revolted,  that  she  felt  as  if 
she  could  not  go  on  living  unless  she  could  find 
some  way  out  of  the  frightful  tangle. 

Was  it  in  any  way  her  own  fault?  She  did 
not  think  so.  She  was  flung  into  marriage, 
without  being  allowed  to  know  what  she  was  do 
ing.  She  realized  that  that  was  the  only  way 
it  could  have  been  done.  She  wondered  if  her 
father  and  mother  knew  how  wicked  they  had 
been.  The  whole  thing  seemed  so  horrible 


132    WHOSO   FINDETH   A  WIFE 

that  she  had  been  bartered  by  her  own  flesh — 
that  she  was  almost  stunned  by  the  contempla 
tion  of  the  truth. 

She  wondered  if  the  clergyman  who  mar 
ried  them — old  Mr.  Cartwright — had  known, 
whether  he  would  have  performed  the  ceremony 
just  the  same !  She  was  afraid  he  would.  She 
was  afraid  he  would  have  been  more  shocked 
by  the  idea  of  his  having  any  responsibility  in 
the  matter,  fhan  by  what  he  had  to  do  in  tying 
a  girl  of  twenty  for  life  to  a  man  twice  her  age 
whom  she  did  not  love. 

Sold !  Sold !  Surely  they  ought  not  to  have 
done  it!  Surely  they,  who  knew  all  about  it, 
ought  not  to  have  sold  her  into  bondage.  She 
groaned  aloud.  It  was  horrible,  horrible! 
Not  to  love  the  man  one  marries — that  must  be 
hard.  But  to  hate  him !  (and  she  did  hate  him !) 
that  was  worse. 

She  hated  it  all.  She  dreaded  the  future. 
She  could  not  bear  to  think  about  the  future 
even  then.  When  she  thought  of  living  out  a 
lifetime  with  her  husband,  she  felt  as  if  she 


GLIMPSE    OF    THE    REAL    133 

were  stranded  on  some  desert  island,  with  only 
a  wild  animal  for  a  companion.  If  only  she  had 
the  courage  to  end  it  all — to  die  and  so  escape 
the  intolerable  bond  that  bound  her! 


CHAPTER  XH 

OUT   OP   THE   STAGNANT  HABBOB 
I 

ANOTHEB  summer  had  arrived,  but  with  it  had 
come  no  change  in  the  relations  of  Dunham  and 
his  wife.  Meanwhile  Elizabeth  spent  no  more 
time  with  Ealph  than  seemed  absolutely  re 
quired  of  her — indeed  she  had  slept  more  fre 
quently  under  her  father's  roof  than  beneath 
her  husband's. 

At  Ferris '  invitation,  Craig  Clifton  had  come 
to  Oak  Ledge  for  the  week-end.  There  was 
business  that  demanded  attention.  It  was  June 
and  Stephen  knew  that  New  York  was  hot,  and 
humid,  and  reeking  with  divers  unpleasant 
odors.  He  had  no  desire  to  set  foot  in  the  City. 
So  he  asked  Clifton  to  make  a  pilgrimage  into 
the  Berkshires. 

The  pressure  of  work  had  kept  Clifton  in 

134 


OUT    OF    THE    HARBOR     135 

town  steadily  and  lie  welcomed  an  excuse  to  es 
cape  to  the  country  and  avoid  even  a  few  of 
the  depressing,  enervating  days  of  New  York 
in  midsummer.  He  arrived  at  the  Ferris '  house 
late  at  night  after  a  tiring  journey  in  a  stifling, 
dusty  train;  and  after  being  greeted  by  his 
host  he  had  gone  straight  to  his  room  and  to 
bed.  There  was  a  lively  gathering  upon  the 
piazza,  but  Clifton  had  not  tarried  to  meet  the 
other  guests. 

The  next  morning  he  awakened  early,  to  the 
song  of  chirping  birds.  A  fresh,  perfume-laden 
breeze  was  moving  the  curtains  at  his  windows 
and  though  it  was  hours  earlier  than  he  was 
wont  to  rise  when  in  town,  he  responded  to  the 
call  of  the  country  and  dressed  quickly. 

After  he  had  finished  the  coffee  and  rolls 
which  were  brought  to  his  chamber,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  gardens  lying  at  the  back  of  the 
house  and  followed  along  the  hedge-lined  paths 
which  wove  their  way  in  and  out.  Here  and 
there  he  came  upon  a  gardener  busy  with  his 
weeding ;  but  of  the  guests  of  the  night  before  lie 


136     WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

saw  nothing.  Finding  a  comfortable  seat 
placed  invitingly  beneath  a  cherry-tree,  he  sat 
down  to  enjoy  a  cigarette.  After  the  swelter 
of  New  York  it  was  delightful  to  be  there  in  the 
bright  sunshine,  and  hear  the  twitter  of  birds 
and  smell  the  fragrance  of  flowers.  He  had  not 
sat  there  long  when  a  step  sounded  on  the 
graveled  path  behind  him.  He  turned  instantly 
and  sprang  quickly  to  his  feet.  It  was  Mrs. 
Ealph  Dunham,  with  her  hands  full  of  roses. 
Clifton  recognized  her  immediately,  though  he 
had  seen  her  but  once  before — on  the  occasion 
when  he  had  been  presented  to  her  at  her 
father's  house. 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "You  are  Mr.  Clifton,  are 
you  not?  You  too! — you  could  not  resist  the 
beautiful  morning.  But  you  have  been  idle, 
while  I  have  been  busy,  as  you  see,"  she  ex 
plained,  raising  her  flowers  for  him  to  admire. 

"They  are  beautiful,  Mrs.  Dunham,"  Clifton 
said,  and  his  heart  pounded  hard  against  his 
ribs.  "They  are  beautiful,  and  you — "  He 
stopped  suddenly,  amazed  at  himself  that  he 


OUT    OF    THE    HARBOR     137 

should  be  so  moved  at  the  sight  of  her ;  and  he 
paused  just  in  time  to  choke  off  a  most  flagrant 
compliment. 

"And  I  am  very  energetic,  you  must  agree," 
she  said,  finishing  his  sentence  for  him. 

Clifton  let  her  interruption  pass  unchal 
lenged.  He  had  not  meant  his  remark  to  end 
as  she  would  have  it;  but  fortunately  he  had 
realized  before  it  was  too  late  that  it  was  decid 
edly  presumptuous  of  him  to  be  making  pretty 
speeches  to  Mrs.  Dunham. 

"Will  you  wear  one  of  my  roses?"  she  asked 
him. 

"With  much  pleasure,  if  you  will  choose 
one,"  he  told  her. 

"Oh,  you  must  tell  me  which  you  like  best," 
she  said.  "A  pink  one,  or  a  white  one,  or  a 
red?  For  me — I  love  the  red,"  and  she  buried 
her  pretty  nose  deep  in  a  cluster  of  crimson 
blossoms. 

Clifton  thought  they  matched  the  red  of  her 
lips.  He  touched  gently  the  flower  her  mouth 
had  pressed. 


138     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

"This  one,  please!"  he  said. 

"Ah!  so  you  prefer  that  color,  too?"  she  ex 
claimed,  as  she  held  the  blossom  out  to  him. 
She  smiled,  and  Clifton  felt  that  no  more  glori 
ous  morning  had  ever  dawned,  since  the  begin 
ning  of  things. 

"How  can  those  stupid  people  spend  so  much 
time  asleep?"  she  asked,  as  she  looked  toward 
the  house.  "I  want  to  go  for  a  ride,  and  there 
are  just  we  two  up. ' ' 

"Perhaps  you  will  let  me  go  with  you?"  he 
suggested. 

"Do  you  really  wish  to  come?"  she  asked. 
"Then  let  us  hurry  and  dress.  I  will  see  that 
the  horses  are  saddled  and  waiting  for  us." 

ii 

Off  they  went,  the  two  of  them,  and  the  brisk, 
delicious  air  and  the  charm  of  the  exercise  made 
Elizabeth  forget  her  troubles.  For  once — for 
the  first  time  since  her  marriage — she  was 
young  and  buoyant,  seizing  with  eager  hands 
the  passing  pleasure. 


OUT    OF    THE    HARBOR     139 

Soon  the  road  took  them  into  a  wonderful 
old  beech  wood,  where  the  long  amber  rays  of 
the  early  morning  sun  slanted  athwart  the 
brown,  gnarled  trunks  and  danced  and  quivered 
in  the  cool,  green  depths  of  the  midsummer 
foliage.  Through  the  tree-tops  the  sky  ap 
peared  like  a  gigantic  plain  of  clearest  azure 
and  crystal.  They  spoke  little,  at  first,  as  they 
rode  along  the  forest  path.  The  caressing 
branches  touched  them  gently  as  they  passed 
and  now  and  then  a  squirrel  cocked  his  eyes 
curiously  at  them,  and  a  brightly  feathered 
songster  bade  them  a  cheery  good-morning. 
Coming  out  upon  an  undulating  meadow  road 
their  mounts  broke  into  a  sweeping  canter  and 
the  early  breeze,  laden  with  puffs  of  clover, 
wooed  their  faces  sweetly. 

Craig  Clifton  was  in  paradise  and  Elizabeth, 
too,  was  radiant. 

As  he  looked  at  her,  with  her  white  flawless 
skin  contrasting  sharply  with  her  chestnut  hair 
and  the  deep  red  of  her  lips,  he  was  certain 
that  nowhere  was  there  a  match  for  that  divine 


creature.  He  saw  with  appreciation  how  her 
slight  yet  well-knit  body  swayed  subtly  with  the 
movement  of  her  mount,  and  he  admired  the 
firm  but  delicate  way  in  which  her  hand  felt 
her  horse's  mouth. 

"You're  fond  of  riding,  aren't  you?"  he  said. 

"I  have  loved  horses  since  I  was  a  little  girl," 
she  told  him,  simply.  "It  is  my  greatest  pleas 
ure  to  be  out  in  the  open  like  this  early  in  the 
day.  There 's  nothing  to  compare  with  the  feel 
ing  of  life  and  buoyancy  it  gives  one. ' ' 

Craig  wished  that  he  might  spend  all  the 
mornings  of  his  life  with  her  like  this.  But 
he  could  not  tell  his  companion  that.  He  could 
only  talk  commonplaces  and  tell  her  about  the 
favorite  horses  he  had  had,  from  Peter,  his  first 
pony,  to  Bolero,  his  latest  Irish  hunter. 

And  as  they  talked  gaily  their  horses  carried 
them  further  and  further  out  into  the  rolling 
country-side.  When  they  came  to  a  small 
brook,  which  ran  placidly  between  willow- 
fringed  banks,  Elizabeth  brought  her  horse  to  a 
stop. 


OUT   OF    THE    HARBOR     141 

"See!"  she  said.  "How  pretty  it  must  be 
up  there  along  the  stream!  Let  us  explore  a 
little ! ' '  And  so  they  tied  their  horses  to  a  fence 
and  rambled  carelessly  beside  the  tiny  rivulet. 

Soon  they  came  to  a  spot  where  it  was  neces 
sary  to  cross  upon  the  rocks  to  the  opposite 
bank.  Elizabeth  would  not  let  Clifton  help  her. 
She  was  sure  she  was  entirely  able  to  manage 
the  crossing  alone. 

Forgetful  of  his  own  footing,  in  his  careful 
watch  of  her,  he  slipped  on  a  stone,  sending  one 
of  his  feet  into  the  water. 

They  both  laughed,  which  was  the  only  thing 
they  could  possibly  do,  being  young  and  joyful 
with  the  gladness  of  youth  and  summer  time; 
but  when  a  moment  later  it  was  quite  necessary 
for  him  to  touch  her  hand  in  assisting  her  to 
cross  a  tiny  silver  tributary  of  the  stream,  the 
laughter  was  hushed  by  the  engulfing  influence 
of  a  sudden  immense  emotion. 

They  both  knew,  in  that  instant,  through  the 
mysterious  free-masonry  of  sex,  that  they  were 
strangely  drawn  to  each  other. 


142     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

He  should  have  avoided  it:  he — whose  eyes 
saw  things  more  clearly  than  hers.  He  should 
have  realized  the  danger. 

But  his  brain  was  a  bit  clouded  by  the  veil  of 
his  emotions. 

He  knew  that  already  he  regarded  her  differ 
ently  from  the  way  he  regarded  other  women 
and  he  felt  that  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  all  bar 
riers  as  quickly  as  possible. 

This  girl  with  the  beautiful  throat  and  the 
serious  eyes  made  a  direct  and  instant  appeal 
to  him.  He  could  no  more  help  touching  her 
than  the  butterfly  can  help  touching  the  petals 
of  the  rose.  He  didn't  want  to  think  anything 
out — to  plan  anything  or  grapple  with  anything 
— he  only  wanted  immediately  to  begin  enjoy 
ing  the  rapture  of  being  passionately  in  love 
with  a  woman  who  was  the  right  age  to  be  loved 
passionately.  .  .  . 

There  was  brilliance  in  her  eyes,  and  there 
was  rose-pink  on  her  cheeks,  and  when  she 
smiled  it  was  without  restraint. 

He  felt  as  if  just  at  this  precise  moment  life 


OUT   OF    THE    HARBOR     143 

were  beginning,  as  if  it  were  absurd  ever  to  im 
agine  that  it  could  have  begun  before. 

They  stopped  and  rested  upon  the  bank. 
Elizabeth  sat  quite  still  and  tried  not  to  be  con 
scious  of  anything  except  the  green  of  the 
leaves  rustling  overhead. 

She  would  just  go  on  thinking  about  those 
green  leaves  and — ah!  no,  $he  couldn't  go  on 
thinking  about  those  because  a  little  bird  with 
a  speckled  breast  had  flown  on  to  the  bough! 
The  little  bird — a  plump  little  preening  hen- 
thing — was  now  attracting  her  attention,  and — 
and — there,  now  another  little  bird  had  joined 
her  on  the  bough. 

But  the  newcomer  was  a  slimly-smart  young 
bird,  and  they  were  chirruping  together  and 
their  beaks  were  touching,  and — and  .  .  . 

With  a  flame  Elizabeth  Dunham's  face  grew 
hot,  for  she  had  suddenly  remembered  that  these 
preening,  twittering  birds  were  part  of  nature's 
stupendous  scheme,  which  was  the  main  element 
of  all  creation. 

These  happy,  chirruping  birds  were  proba- 


144    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

bly  mated  birds  who  had  loved  in  the  spring 
time. 

Everything  and  everybody  seemed  concerned 
in  the  sex-scheme,  and  the  girl  could  feel  a  new 
rushing  and  stirring  of  her  own  blood. 

Vague  unrest,  a  longing  which  would  not  be 
explained,  a  strange  heart-hunger — all  these 
sensations  she  had  known  before. 

But  now  this  was  something  different. 

She  felt  like  a  person  rushing  on  toward  a 
precipice — no,  she  felt  as  if  the  precipice  were 
advancing  toward  her — no,  she  felt  as  if  a  great 
warm  ocean  of  scented,  swamping  waves  were 
about  to  engulf  her — and  in  the  waves  she  could 
see — she  hardly  knew  what. 

Life  was  beginning — the  gates  were  opening 
as  lock-gates  open  to  show  the  glory  of  a  river 
that  runs  down  to — limitless  sea — life — lif e ! 

in 

Clifton  was  sorry  when  the  time  came  to  re 
turn  to  the  road  and  turn  their  horses'  heads 
homewards.  As  they  followed  slowly  along  the 


OUT    OF    THE    HARBOR     145 

bridle-path,  which  wound  like  a  brown  ribbon 
through  meadow  and  woodland,  the  sweet  scent 
of  wild  flowers  came  from  the  roadside  and  the 
whole  face  of  the  world  was  aflame  with  a  gor 
geous  golden  tint,  such  as  art  has  neither  name 
for,  nor  power  to  reproduce. 

There  were  few  spoken  words  between  them 
as  they  rode  back  to  the  house. 

Why  was  there  a  strange  bursting  ache  in 
her  heart? 

What  did  she  want?  What  was  there  which 
she  should  have,  yet  had  not? 

As  Clifton  bent  toward  her  softly  in  the 
shadow  of  the  beech  wood  voluntarily  she 
moved  away,  though  the  next  moment  a  wave  of 
womanly  tenderness  swept  over  her.  She  was 
sorry  for  him.  And  as  Clifton  bent  lower  and 
looked  into  her  eyes  he  saw  an  indefinable  some 
thing  in  their  depths  that  sobered  the  riot  in  his 
veins. 

He  smiled  at  her.  Somehow  that  was  all  he 
dared  do,  then. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TOTJTH   WILL  BE   SERVED 

f  i 

DURING  the  remainder  of  the  day  Clifton  found 
little  opportunity  to  be  with  his  host's  daugh 
ter.  Most  of  the  time  he  spent  with  Ferris, 
going  over  the  details  of  some  real  estate  en 
tanglements  in  which  Stephen  had  become  in 
volved  during  that  stage  of  dwindling  fortune 
from  which  Dunham  had  rescued  him. 

And  Elizabeth?  What  of  her  all  this  time? 
For  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  did  not  have 
her  thoughts  and  moods,  hopes  and  fears,  joys 
and  misgivings. 

When  a  woman — that  is  to  say  an  inherently 
moral  woman — recalls  with  rapture  the  touch 
of  one  particular  man,  it  may  be  safely  reck 
oned  that  his  personality  has  made  a  deep  im 
press  upon  her. 

146 


YOUTH   WILL    BE    SERVED    147 

She  knew  that  she  had  never  met  a  man  who 
had  appealed  to  her  in  just  the  way  that  Clifton 
did.  And  all  that  day  he  was  constantly  in  her 
thoughts. 

There  was  a  dance  at  Oak  Ledge  that  even 
ing.  Not  till  then,  since  his  arrival  on  the  pre 
vious  night,  had  Clifton  had  an  opportunity  to 
mingle  with  the  other  visitors.  There  were 
many  in  addition  to  the  members  of  the  house- 
party — owners  of  neighboring  estates,  most  of 
whom  brought  guests  of  their  own. 

After  Clifton  had  played  a  game  of  billiards 
with  Bradley,  a  man  whom  he  knew,  and  had 
finished  a  cigar,  he  sought  the  ball-room.  One 
figure  only  filled  his  whole  mind — that  of  Mrs. 
Dunham — and  it  was  she  whom  he  went  to  the 
ball-room  to  find. 

But  after  scanning  the  swaying,  gliding 
dancers  for  a  time  he  decided  that  she  was  not 
there.  He  left  the  place. 

She  wasn't  in  the  great  drawing-room,  among 
the  girls  and  their  partners  and  their  chap 
erons  galore;  she  wasn't  in  the  writing-room; 


148     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

she  wasn't  on  any  of  the  corridor  seats;  she 
wasn't  on  the  balcony. 

This  was  annoying,  because  now  that  Clifton 
found  it  difficult  to  catch  the  desired  glimpse  of 
her  face,  the  wish  only  increased  in  fervor. 

A  girl!  It  was  very  extraordinary  for  him 
to  be  so  interested  in  a  girll  But  there  it  was 
— he  wanted  to  see  her  face  more  than  he 
wanted  anything  else  in  the  world. 

So  after  exploring  all  the  near-by  rooms 
Craig  Clifton  enlarged  the  field  of  his  search. 
He  walked  the  length  of  the  long  corridor,  for 
he  remembered  a  small  piazza  that  could  be 
reached  from  the  further  end  of  the  passage. 
Skillfully  avoiding  the  pitfalls  spread  for  him 
by  various  willing  maidens,  he  made  his  way 
quickly  to  the  secluded,  vine-covered  nook. 

And  there,  looking  serenely  down  at  the 
moon-lit  garden  below,  stood  the  woman  that 
he  sought.  She  was  alone,  and  at  the  sound  of 
his  step  she  turned  and  in  the  half-light  they 
saw  each  other's  faces. 

In  another  moment  Clifton  had  spoken  her 


YOUTH    WILL    BE    SERVED    149 

name  softly,  and  gently  held  both  her  soft,  cool 
hands  in  his. 

n 

It  is  so  hard  to  find  accurate  phrases  when 
the  wine  of  music  is  inebriating  the  senses ! 

Clifton,  unconsciously  guiding  his  partner  in 
and  out  among  the  other  dancing  couples,  only 
knew  that  he  was  supremely  happy. 

Elizabeth,  too,  experienced  unwonted  self- 
communings.  For  her  it  seemed  that  the  world 
contained  nothing  but  him — for  him  it  seemed 
that  the  world  contained  nothing  but  her ! 

So  they  swayed  with  the  rhythm  of  the  piece, 
till  suddenly  the  motif  changed. 

Then,  with  the  change  of  the  motif,  the  girl's 
whole  nature  changed.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
letting  herself  go  without  knowing  it. 

Ah !  how  the  strings  were  wailing  and  how  the 
melody  was  throbbing  on  the  air! 

She  could  look  up  at  him  and  see  the  little 
cleft  in  the  center  of  his  chin,  and  the  sweetness 
of  his  lips  when  he  smiled,  and  the  light  shining 


150     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

through  one  obtrusive  little  outstanding  lock  of 
hair  which  would  insist  upon  breaking  into  defi 
nite  curl. 

Ah !  the  swell  of  the  'cellos  as  they  took  up  the 
crying  of  the  theme !  like  a  passion  dirge  of  liv 
ing  loves ! 

Craig  Clifton  looked  at  the  girl,  who  nestled 
in  his  embrace.  He  looked  at  the  cool  pale  skin, 
beneath  which  throbbed  the  pulse  of  youth ;  he 
looked  at  the  little  scarlet  mouth — such  a  little 
mouth,  but  full  and  sweet  and  dewy — and  he 
looked  at  the  gentle  rising  and  falling  of  her 
bosom. 

In  the  crash  of  the  music  sounded  triumph, 
wild  mysticism  and  humanity ;  in  the  rapture  of 
the  notes  rang  love's  uncheckable  passion. 

Clifton's  breath  came  faster  and  faster — and 
the  minor  melody  of  the  stringed  band  sobbed 
and  swelled.  "With  the  masterful  air  of  a  man 
who  demands  the  right  to  be  a  lover — "Let's  go 
out,"  he  said  quickly — " let's  go  out  into  the 
garden ! ' ' 


YOUTH    WILL    BE    SERVED    151 

"Yes,  we  will  go  out  and  invade  the  moon 
light,  ' '  she  answered,  and  he  followed,  followed 
with  a  firm  look  on  his  well-shaped  mouth,  and 
a  fixed  brilliance  in  his  blue  eyes. 

When  they  had  passed  into  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  he  took  one  of  her  hands  and  drew  it  un 
der  his  arm,  drew  it  there  so  that  he  could  more 
easily  steer  her  toward  the  wicket  gate,  which 
led  to  a  bower  of  shrubbery  beyond. 

Yes,  they  were  going  through  the  wicket  gate 
and  down  the  little  path  to  a  very  paradise  of 
lovers.  They  would  be  alone — entirely  alone, 
as  nature  meant  lovers  to  be. 

"Have  you  missed  me?"  was  the  first  thing 
he  said  to  her. 

"Missed  you?"  She  instinctively  tempo 
rized  with  him,  for  after  all  she  was  a  woman, 
strengthened  by  the  knowledge  of  her  newly 
found  power. 

"Yes,  missed  me,  and  wanted  me,  as  I  want 
you  now,  as  I  want  you  now." 

"Yes,  I  missed  you,  and — and — wanted  you." 


152     WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

It  was  her  first  confession,  but  it  came  easily, 
far  more  easily  than  she  could  have  believed 
that  it  would  be  possible  to  confess. 

So  at  last  he  was  satisfied,  for  the  moment. 

She  had  missed  him !  She  had  wanted  him — 
so  now — nothing  but  love  lay  ahead ! 

They  found  a  seat,  screened  by  a  bank  of 
blossoming  hedge,  and  sitting  there  both 
sensed  the  potency  of  a  force  that  seemed 
stronger  than  they  were. 

She  had  never  felt  like  this  before. 

It  was  pleasant  to  feel  the  cool  night  breezes 
blowing  upon  her  face.  Everything  was  mys 
terious,  enchanting.  The  June  roses  were 
sending  up  a  perfume  almost  unholy  in  its 
sweetness.  The  flowers  were  like  girls  with 
youthful  faces  and  passionate  souls. 

And  the  moon  was  shining — not  innocently, 
somehow,  even  though  her  light  was  white  and 
silvery.  And  there  were  the  stars,  unreach- 
able,  far-away  stars,  sparkling  with  the  bril 
liancy  of  elusive  hopes  and  elusive  desires, 
which  can  never  be  fulfilled. 


YOUTH    WILL    BE    SERVED    153 

Oh!  what  were  those  elusive  hopes  and  de 
sires  beating  so  quickly  at  her  heart  ? 

Why  was  there  a  sob  at  her  throat? 

A  strange  uneasiness  came  over  her — and 
then,  before  she  knew  what  had  happened,  Clif 
ton  had  kissed  her  and  crushed  her  in  the  soft 
silence  of  the  night. 

But  not  a  single  endearing  word  left  his  lips. 
The  moment  was  too  poignant  for  speech. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON  THE  FLOOD 

I 

DUKING  the  remainder  of  that  summer  Eliza 
beth  and  Clifton  saw  much  of  each  other.  It 
was  surprising  how  many  details  of  her  father's 
business  Clifton  found  it  necessary  to  discuss 
in  person  with  his  client,  with  the  result  that 
week  after  week  saw  him  making  pilgrimages 
to  Oak  Ledge. 

For  those  two  enamored  ones — Craig  and 
Elizabeth — the  time  alternately  dragged  and 
flew.  During  the  intervals  in  which  they  were 
separated  they  were  in  an  impatient  fever  of 
expectancy,  chafing  under  the  delay  which  must 
ensue  each  week  until  they  should  meet  again. 

At  first  neither  of  them  realized  the  impasse 
into  which  their  folly  was  leading  them.  When 
they  were  together  there  was  the  excitement 

154 


ON    THE    FLOOD  155 

of  the  moment  to  blur  their  powers  of  compre 
hension;  and  when  they  were  apart  the  over 
whelming  desire  to  bridge  the  chasm  of  time 
and  space  between  them  made  them  oblivious 
of  everything  except  that  poignant  longing. 

It  was  inevitable  that  they  could  not  go  on 
indefinitely  without  their  secret  being  dis 
covered  by  some  one ;  and  it  was  Margaret  who 
found  them  out  at  last.  She  happened  to  inter 
cept  just  one  unguarded  glance  between  the  two ; 
and  it  was  enough.  Her  woman's  intuition  at 
once  supplied  the  whole  story.  Before  she  slept 
that  night  she  accused  Elizabeth  of  being  in  love 
with  Clifton,  and  confirmed  her  fears. 

n 

Ralph  Dunham  had  a  country-place  of  his 
own,  on  the  Connecticut  shore  of  the  Sound. 
It  was  a  beautiful  estate.  A  long  house, 
smothered  in  roses  and  creepers,  capped  its 
highest  eminence  and  afforded  a  wide  view  of 
rolling  hills  and  water. 

Elizabeth  had  spent  very  little  time  at  the 


156    WHOSO   FINDETH    A   WIFE 

Connecticut  house.  She  had  gone  there  once 
or  twice  at  Dunham's  request,  in  order  to  play 
the  hostess  when  he  had  guests  there  from 
whom  he  especially  wished  to  keep  any  suspi 
cion  of  the  fact  that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be 
between  them.  But  except  upon  those  occa 
sions  she  had  avoided  the  place.  The  Knolls, 
as  Dunham  had  named  the  estate,  possessed  no 
attraction  for  her — at  least  not  enough  to 
counterbalance  her  distaste  for  being  more  or 
less  thrown  in  her  husband's  society. 

It  came  as  a  shock  to  Elizabeth  when  her 
mother  announced  that  she  must  leave  Oak 
Ledge  at  once  and  join  Ealph  at  The  Knolls. 

"You  are  making  a  terrible  mistake,"  Mar 
garet  told  her.  ''I'm  astonished  that  you  have 
encouraged  Clifton.  The  affair  must  end  now. 
Indeed  it's  a  mercy  that  no  one  else  has  dis 
covered  this  foolishness.  If  Clifton  must  come 
here  on  your  father's  business  I  suppose  it's  out 
of  the  question  to  suppose  that  you  won't  keep 
on  seeing  each  other.  So  there's  just  one  thing 
to  be  done.  I've  already  told  your  maid  to 


ON    THE    FLOOD  157 

pack  your  luggage  and  you  are  going  to  go  and 
live  under  your  husband's  roof." 

The  information  rather  took  away  Elizabeth's 
breath  for  #  moment.  At  first  she  was  moved 
to  rebel  at  her  mother's  harshness.  But  she 
quickly  made  up  her  mind  that  she  might  bet 
ter  go.  She  knew  she  would  have  no  peace 
in  the  same  house  with  her  zealous  parent. 

"I'm  quite  ready  to  do  as  you  wish,"  she 
said.  "But  I  never  thought  I'd  be  turned  out 
of  my  own  father's  house  and  I  shall  never  for 
get  it." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  her  mother  told  her.  "It's 
simply  for  your  own  good  that  I'm  doing  this." 

' '  For  my  good  ?  Since  when,  pray,  have  you 
been  thinking  about  me? "  Elizabeth  asked  bit 
terly.  "I  believe  you're  afraid.  I  believe  you 
expect  more  money  from  Ealph  and  you're 
afraid  you'll  lose  it." 

"That's  unkind,"  her  mother  said  quickly 
— "most  unkind  of  you.  And  I'll  not  argue  the 
point  with  you.  If  you  were  not  a  goose  you 
could  see  for  yourself  where  your  folly  would 


158    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

end.  Such  affairs  as  this  between  you  and  Clif 
ton  spell  divorce  in  large  capital  letters.  I 
don't  mean  to  have  our  good  name  dragged 
through  the  mire  by  a  headstrong  girl.  It's 
only  the  greatest  good  fortune  that  has  pre 
vented  a  scandal  already.  Who  knows  who 
might  have  seen  you  and  Clifton  mooning  about? 
It  takes  very  little  to  set  people's  tongues  wag 
ging." 

Elizabeth  had  to  shut  her  eyes  tight  to  pre 
vent  the  tears  from  falling.  How  miserable 
she  felt !  What  a  life  it  had  turned  out  to  "be ! 
What  a  fulfillment  of  her  dreams  of  indepen 
dent  happiness!  At  the  end  of  those  weary 
months  of  marriage  she  was  lonely  and  friend 
less — friendless  except  for  Craig,  and  now  her 
mother  was  trying  to  put  him  away  from  her. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  miserably  out 
into  the  gray  afternoon  light.  She  felt  that 
slie  could  not  listen  to  another  word  and  with 
out  looking  at  her  mother  again  she  hurried  off 
to  her  chamber. 


ON    THE    FLOOD  159 

In  her  room  she  threw  herself  down  upon 
her  bed  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"I  think  I  am  going  mad,"  she  cried;  "mad! 
Oh,  how  wiU  it  all  end?" 

m 

Dunham  was  astonished  when  Elizabeth  ar 
rived  at  The  Knolls  and  announced  that  she  had 
come  for  an  indefinite  stay.  Had  she  expe 
rienced  a  sudden  change  of  heart?  The  hope 
quickened  within  him  that  at  last  in  some  mys 
terious  way  her  attitude  toward  him  had 
altered.  But  he  was  soon  forced  to  acknowl 
edge  to  himself  that  the  status  of  their  rela 
tions  was  to  continue  as  before.  Elizabeth 
showed  no  desire  even  for  his  casual  companion 
ship.  On  the  very  day  of  her  arrival  she  sent 
out  notes  to  a  dozen  people  inviting  them  to  a 
house-party. 

Among  the  letters  was  one  addressed  to  Craig 
Clifton. 


160    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

IV 

Elizabeth  and  Clifton  were  alone  in  her  little 
private  sitting-room,  a  tiny  retreat  which 
opened  out  of  her  boudoir.  They  had  just  re 
turned  from  a  long  walk.  He  was  leaning  over 
the  back  of  a  settee  on  which  she  was  resting. 
It  was  a  great  comfort  to  her  to  have  him  near 
her  again. 

11  Elizabeth,"  he  said  suddenly,  "have  you 
not  wondered  how  all  this  is  going  to  end  ? ' ' 

"End?"  she  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  him  in 
surprise.  "Do  you  mean  that  we  must — must 
part?" 

"No — no!"  he  answered  quickly.  "But  we 
can't  go  on  forever  like  this.  I  didn't  think 
about  it  at  first.  But  lately  it  has  come  over  me 
that  some  sort  of  crisis  is  inevitable.  Eliza 
beth — we  can't  go  on  like  this  indefinitely.  It's 
— it's  impossible." 

"Well — what  can  we  do?"  she  asked  him 
during  the  pause  that  followed  his  declaration. 

"There's  divorce,"  he  said.    "I've  thought 


ON   THE   FLOOD  161 

about  it;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  obtain  in  New 
York." 

"Isn't  there  some  other  way?"  she  inquired. 
"It's  called  by  some  other  name — annulment — 
that's  it." 

"Yes;  but  you  have  to  have  grounds,  you 
know.  And  I  don't  see  how  there  could  be  any 
annulment  of  your  marriage." 

Elizabeth  thought  deeply  for  a  moment  be 
fore  she  answered.  And  then  she  said  slowly — 

"I  don't  believe  you  understand.  You  see, 
except  in  name  I  have  never  been  Ralph's  wife. ' ' 

Clifton  heard  the  words  with  delight.  And 
yet  he  could  scarcely  believe  them. 

"You — you  mean,"  he  stammered,  "that  you 
have  simply  taken  his  name  ?  And  that  there 's 
no  more  of  a  marriage  between  you  two  than 
there  would  have  been  if — if  you  had  left  him 
immediately  after  the  ceremony?"  He  was 
watching  her  breathlessly  now. 

"Exactly,"  she  said. 

Clifton  continued  to  stare  at  her  wonder- 
ingly. 


162    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

' '  But  why  1 "  he  asked.  '  *  Is  it  for  any  reason 
that  we  could  use  against  Dunham?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  replied.  "I 
know  nothing  about  legal  matters — least  of  all 
the  divorce  laws." 

"Tell  me  what  you  can,"  he  urged.  "Why 
is  it  that — that  your  marriage  has  never  been 
consummated?" 

Elizabeth  hesitated  a  little  before  replying. 
She  did  not  know  precisely  how  to  tell  him. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  all  because  of  a  misunder 
standing  on  my  part,"  she  acknowledged  at 
last.  "I  didn't  want  to  marry  Ralph  in  the 
first  place.  But  father  and  mother  both  urged 
me  to  do  it.  And  when  I  told  mother  that  I — 
I  didn't  care  for  him  in  that  sort  of  way — that 
I  couldn't — she  did  not  quite  know  what  I 
meant.  And  she  told  me  that  it  would  be  all 
right.  And  then,  when  I  explained  to  Ealph, 
when  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  he  misunder 
stood  too.  So  it's  all  been  a  dreadful  mistake." 

"I  see,"  Clifton  said  slowly.  "Unfortu 
nately,  however,  it's  not  the  sort  of  thing  that 


ON    THE    FLOOD  163 

would  help  you  to  free  yourself. "  He  pon 
dered  for  a  time  upon  the  strange  situation. 
"How  about  your  husband?"  he  asked  then., 
"Wouldn't  he  be  willing  to  have  the  marriage 
annulled?  He  has  grounds  for  petitioning  for 
an  annulment,  I  should  say." 

Elizabeth  shook  her  head  despairingly. 

"I've  asked  him  already,"  she  said.  "But 
he  says  that  so  long  as  I'm  getting  the  sort  of 
marriage  that  I  stipulated  for  he  sees  no  reason 
why  I  should  complain — why  I  should  want  to 
leave  him.  I  think — "  she  added,  "I  think  he 
hopes  that  perhaps,  sometime,  I  may  feel  dif 
ferently  toward  him." 

Clifton  was  surprised  to  find  himself  pitying 
Dunham  in  his  heart.  "Poor  fellow!"  he  said 
to  himself.  He  had  felt  qualms  of  jealousy 
whenever  he  had  seen  Elizabeth  with  her  hus 
band.  But  now  he  could  afford  to  be  compas 
sionate — now  that  he  knew  the  truth. 

v 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  moments.    Then 


164    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

Elizabeth  began  to  undo  the  buttons  of  her 
gloves.  Clifton  put  out  his  hand  and  reached 
over  her  far  enough  to  undo  the  buttons  of  her 
left-hand  glove.  Then,  raising  the  hand  quickly 
to  his  lips,  he  kissed  it. 

His  lips  were  burning,  and  she  shivered. 

"Don't,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

' '  All  right. ' '  He  was  still  holding  Elizabeth 's 
left  hand,  and  she  felt  that  his  own  were  trem 
bling.  A  horrible  impulse  urged  her  to  turn 
towards  him,  to  put  her  right  hand  where  her 
left  was,  to  meet  his  eyes. 

But  she  knew  she  must  not  do  this.  She 
fought  with  herself,  half  frightened,  half  angry. 

"You  had  better  go  away,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  sounded  faint  and  weak.  She  felt 
his  grasp  growing  tighter  on  the  hand  he  held. 

"Why!" 

She  did  not  at  once  answer. 

A  thousand  reasons  for  his  leaving  her  were 
ready  in  her  brain,  and  one  strong  above  all 
that  she  did  not  dare  to  utter. 

"Why  must  I  go?"  he  repeated  passionately. 


ON    THE    FLOOD  165 

She  tried  to  draw  her  hand  away,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  all  the  strength  had  gone  out  of 
her.  She  felt  like  a  reed,  a  wisp  of  hay,  a 
feather,  anything  that  is  without  the  power  of 
resistance,  of  standing  upright. 

It  was  he  who  spoke  next,  and  his  voice  was 
changed.  It  seemed  to  be  broken  and  hoarse, 
but  with  something  in  every  tone  that  went 
straight  down  to  Elizabeth's  heart,  making  her 
ready  to  yield  to  him,  to  let  him  stay,  as  he  asked 
to  do. 

But  yet  she  knew  that  she  must  not,  that  she 
dared  not. 

"Why  may  I  not  stay?  Your  old  Craig,  eh, 
little  girl!" 

She  wanted  to  scold  him  for  speaking  to  her 
in  that  way,  for  making  her  feel  as  she  was 
feeling. 

He  was  a  man;  he  knew  so  much  more  than 
she;  surely  he  must  know  what  he  was  doing 
to  her,  how  he  was  melting  down  principles  that 
ought  to  be  hard  and  strong,  and  making  her 
forget  what  she  ought  to  remember! 


166    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

For  a  moment  her  hand  rested  trembling  in 
his,  and  it  was  as  much  as  she  could  do  not  to 
let  her  fingers  curl  round  his,  affectionately, 
convulsively. 

Then  she  recovered  some  of  her  self-com 
mand,  and  tried  to  laugh. 

''Old  Craig  ought  to  see  that  I'm  tired,  and 
that  the  kindest  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to 
leave  me  to  rest  a  little,  since  I  shall  certainly 
have  to  be  with  my  guests  again  after  dinner. 
And  if  I  have  to  go  without  any  rest  first,  I 
shall  lose  all  that  magnificent  reputation  for 
good  looks  which  old  Craig  himself  had  been 
the  first  to  assure  me  I've  got,"  she  said. 

"Well,  can't  you  rest  with  me  in  the  room1? 
Let  me  help  you  off  with  your  things.  Of 
course,  you  can't  rest  in  all  that  finery.  But 
you  can  change  into  your  tea-gown  and  be  as 
lazy  as  you  like." 

1  'No,  I  can't.    It's  all  fastened  up  the  back." 

"Let  me  unfasten  it  for  you.  I'm  a  capital 
lady's  maid." 

"No." 


ON    THE    FLOOD  167 

"Why  not?  Do  you  think  I'm  not  clever 
enough1?" 

"No,  of  course  not.  But  some  one  might 
come  in  and  think  it  odd  I  should  let  you  do 
it." 

"Well,  somebody  has  to  do  it.  Didn't  you 
tell  me  your  maid  had  just  left?" 

"Yes.  But  the  chambermaid  comes  when  I 
ring." 

"Well,  ring  for  her  now.  Anything  rather 
than  that  I  should  be  turned  out. '  * 

"But  you'd  better  go,  Craig,  before  Ralph 
comes." 

* ' Oh,  he  won't  say  a  word.  I  bet  you  he'll  be 
as  meek  as  a  lamb  to-day." 

"But  I  want  you  to  go!"  The  truth  was, 
though  she  would  not  for  the  world  have  told 
him  so,  that  she  had  suddenly  grown  afraid  of 
herself,  afraid  of  him,  and  conscious  that,  if 
she  were  to  let  herself  go  ever  so  little,  she 
should  break  down  into  silliness,  into  confi 
dences  which  she  ought  not  to  make,  into  con 
fession  that  she  was  unhappy  and  lonely. 


168    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

Lonely!  Yes,  that  was  what  she  felt.  And 
somehow  this  loneliness  seemed  worse  when 
Craig  was  there  than  when  she  was  alone. 
They  were  getting  into  an  emotional  state  which 
she  dreaded  to  encourage.  And  it  was  strange 
to  think  back  to  the  time  when  she  would  just 
have  cried,  and  have  let  Clifton  dry  her  eyes 
and  tell  her  not  to  be  a  goose. 

Elizabeth  began  to  be  angry  with  him  for  not 
understanding,  or  rather  for  pretending  not  to 
understand. 

She  tapped  her  foot  impatiently  on  the  floor 
and  sat  up  on  the  settee,  trying  to  drag  her 
hand  away  from  him.  But  he  merely  slid  round 
the  end  and  laughed  at  her. 

"You  did  want  me  to  take  you  for  walks,  now 
didn't  you?" 

" Walks.  Yes,  that's  different.  I  never 
asked  you  to  come  and  tease  me  like  this." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'm  never  to  come  and 
see  you  except  formally?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly.  No.  I  only  mean  that 
I  really,  really  want  to  be  alone  now." 


ON    THE    FLOOD  169 

"All  right.  Give  me  a  kiss,  and  I'll  go  at 
once. ' ' 

He  was  close  to  her.  For  one  moment  she 
was  inclined  to  let  him  kiss  her,  and  to  kiss  him 
back.  But  the  next  she  sprang  up  with  a  laugh, 
and  told  him  he  was  absurd,  and  that  he  must 
go  away  at  once  and  not  tease  her  any  more. 

Then  he  caught  her  and  kissed  her  against  her 
will.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  against  her  will,  though 
she  didn't  try  to  get  away.  She  couldn't.  Shf. 
felt  as  if  she  were  paralyzed,  and  yet  as  if  she 
were  glad  not  to  be  able  to  get  away. 

Suddenly  she  released  herself — so  suddenly 
that  she  almost  fell  to  the  floor. 

"How  could  you?"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 
"You  have  no  right — " 

"No  right  to  love  you?  Why  not?  Who  has 
a  better  right  than  I?  Elizabeth,  don't  you 
want  me  to  love  you,  child  f  You  look  so  lonely, 
so  helpless,  it  makes  my  heart  bleed  to  see  you  I" 

She  could  only  repeat  the  same  words: 

"You  have  no  right,  no  right.  I've  done 
nothing  to  make  you  think  of  me  like  that." 


170    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

"I  think  of  you  as  a  martyr,  nothing  less, 
Elizabeth.  You  have  been  sacrificed  to  other 
people's  needs." 

"Nonsense.  I'm  not  a  martyr.  But  if  I 
were  that's  no  reason  why  you  should  treat  me 
as  if  I  were  unworthy  of  respect." 

"  Elizabeth,  how  can  you  say  such  things  1" 

"I  say  it  because  it's  true.  You  know  so 
much  that  you  ought  to  treat  me  beautifully!" 

She  burst  into  tears  and  threw  herself  upon 
the  sofa,  and  Clifton,  very  penitent  and  gentle, 
stood  near  her  and  begged  to  be  forgiven. 

"Don't  cry,  Elizabeth;  you  make  me  feel  such 
a  brute,"  he  said.  "Indeed  I  didn't  mean  to 
make  you  cry.  Why  should  you  cry  about  it? 
Why  should  you  be  angry  with  me  for  loving 
you,  for  being  mad  when  I  see  you  thrown 
away?" 

She  sat  up  suddenly,  drying  her  eyes. 

"I'm  angry,"  she  said,  "because  you  seem 
to  think  it  doesn't  matter  how  you  treat  me 
now. '  * 


ON    THE    FLOOD  171 

"Come,  Elizabeth,  my  darling,  that  isn't 
fair." 

"And  don't  call  me  darling.  You  never 
dared  to  before." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  minute,  and  she  sat 
sobbing  quietly.  Then  he  bent  down  and  laid 
one  hand  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  asked  in 
a  low  voice: 

"Shall  I  go  away,  then?" 

She  bowed  her  head  without  saying  anything. 
But  he  did  not  go  at  once.  So  presently  she 
looked  up  and  saw  him  looking,  oh,  so  sorry  and 
so  kind  and  so  handsome  and — well,  just  old 
Craig!  And  as  she  looked  up  he  turned  to  go 
away. 

Perhaps  it  was  just  a  trick  on  his  part  and 
that  he  didn't  mean  to  go.  But  to  see  him  turn 
away  from  her  was  more  than  Elizabeth  could 
bear. 

"Craig,  don't  go!  Don't  go  like  that,"  she 
said. 

He  came  back  quietly,  so  as  not  to  frighten 


172    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

her,  and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  sofa,  and 
held  one  hand  while  with  the  other  she  kept  on 
mopping  her  poor  red  eyes. 

"You  must  go,"  she  said  at  last.  And  she 
tried  to  get  up  from  the  sofa.  Clifton  tried  to 
pull  her  down  again.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
with  his  hands  round  her,  anxious  not  to  let 
him  see  how  frightened  she  was.  And  all  the 
while  she  knew  that  she  was  even  more  afraid 
of  herself  than  she  was  of  him,  as  his  earnest, 
passionate  face  bent  over  her  and  two  burning 
eyes  looked  straight  down  into  her  own,  while 
her  very  soul  seemed  to  thrill  and  quiver  and 
leap  to  meet  them. 

"Sit  down,"  said  he  peremptorily. 

By  the  tone  he  was  taking,  Elizabeth  knew 
that  she  must  show  fight  without  delay. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  sit  down  again.  I'm 
going  to  turn  you  out." 

"You're  not.    I  won't  go." 

"Nonsense.    You  must." 

He  jumped  up  and  put  his  arm  round  her^ 
while  he  took  her  chin  in  his  hand  and  looked 


ON    THE    FLOOD  173 

down  into  her  eyes  with  that  look  which  would 
have  made  her  so  passionately  happy  in  the  old 
days  when  she  was  free. 

Now  it  made  her  shudder.  And  she  strug 
gled  to  get  away,  not  looking  at  him. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

"No,  no.  I  won't.  I  can't.  Elizabeth,  you 
love  me,  don't  you,  don't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head,  fighting  with  him. 

"No,  no,  no,  I  don't  love  you,"  she  said. 
"I'm  ashamed  to  find  that  you  are  not  worthy 
of  my  love." 

"Little  girl,  don't  say  that.  Do  you  think 
I  would  want  you  to  fail  in  your  duty,  to  break 
your  vows?  Do  you  think  I  would  ask  you  to 
love  me  if  happiness  were  possible  for  you  in 
any  other  way  1 ' ' 

'  *  I  know  you  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me  like 
this;  no  right,  no  right,"  she  said.  "You  must 
let  me  go.  You  make  me  hate  you,  hate  you 
as  much  as  I  hate  my  husband." 

"Elizabeth,  you  don't  mean  it.  You  don't 
love  him  and  you  love  me.  Where's  the  sense, 


174    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

child,  of  sending  me  away,  of  fighting  with  your 
own  heart  ?  If  you  were  married  to  a  man  you 
could  respect,  even  if  you  couldn't  love  him,  it 
would  be  different.  But  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  he 's  an  animal,  a  brute ;  that  to  talk  of 
keeping  your  faith  to  him  is  an  absurdity. 
Come,  Elizabeth,  little  Elizabeth,  don't  you  trust 
me?  Don't  you  know  that  I  can  make  you 
happy?" 

"No,  no,  no;  I  won't  hear;  I  won't  listen." 
"Yes,  you  will.  Don't  be  frightened.  Don't 
pretend  to  be  cold.  I  know  better.  Elizabeth, 
I  love  you,  I  love  you.  The  sight  of  you  makes 
me  tremble  like  a  leaf.  I  think  of  you  all  day 
long.  I  dream  of  you  all  night.  Oh,  Elizabeth, 
don't  send  me  away.  You  wouldn't  make  me 
unhappy,  would  you?" 

With  all  the  love  and  all  the  longing  that  was 
surging  up  in  her  heart,  she  felt  that  it  was 
contemptible  of  him  to  play  upon  her  feelings  at 
such  a  time,  when  she  was  broken,  heart-sore, 
feeling  deserted  and  desolate.  And  yet  she  had 
not  the  heart  or  the  strength  to  speak  harshly, 


ON    THE    FLOOD  175 

firmly,  to  send  him  away  with  indignant  looks 
and  flashing  eyes  and  the  airs  of  a  tragedy 
queen. 

She  could  only  try  feebly  to  release  herself, 
keeping  her  head  turned  away  for  fear  he  should 
force  her  lips  to  meet  his  and  her  eyes  to  look 
into  his  eyes. 

"It  isn't  right,  it  isn't  right — of  you.  Go 
away. ' ' 

That  was  all  she  could  say,  and  she  said  it  in 
such  a  silly,  hoarse  whisper,  that  it  was  more 
like  the  complaint  of  a  tired  child  than  the 
outraged  dignity  of  an  offended  married 
woman. 

But  perhaps  it  was  the  best  way  to  meet  him, 
because  it  made  him  ashamed  to  be  struggling 
with  such  a  feeble  sort  of  creature,  and  also 
it  made  him  see  that  she  meant  what  she  said. 
If  she  had  put  on  airs  of  haughty  indignation 
he  would  have  known  that  they  were  only  put 
on,  and  he  might  perhaps  have  beaten  them 
down  and  laughed  her  out  of  them,  and — well, 
then,  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  have  hap- 


176    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

pened,  broken  and  wretched  and  deserted  as  she 
was. 

As  it  was,  Clifton  seemed  disconcerted,  and 
for  a  moment  he  relaxed  his  hold,  and  Elizabeth 
ran  to  the  door,  just  turning  to  whisper: 

"Good-by." 


CHAPTEE  XV 

A   HELPING   HAND 
I 

Newport  Elizabeth  met  an  old  acquaintance 
— the  Eev.  Thomas  Cartwright,  who  had  per 
formed  her  marriage  ceremony.  The  Homers, 
with  whom  she  was  staying,  had  invited  the 
clergyman  to  spend  a  few  days  with  them. 
Elizabeth  had  not  known  that  he  was  coming 
and  it  was  with  genuine  delight  that  she  found 
him  browsing  among  the  books  alone  in  the 
library. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  he  came  forward 
and  took  it.  And  the  next  instant  her  feelings 
underwent  a  sudden  change.  For  his  face, 
which  could  express  so  much,  was  full  of  a  grave 
kindness,  and  pity  too;  and  all  at  once  Eliza 
beth  remembered  that  she  had  been  crying  and 
that  her  face  must  show  it.  And  she  was  em- 

177 


178    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

barrassed  and  disturbed.  The  tears  came  to 
her  eyes  again. 

He  still  held  her  hand  and  she  was  sensible 
that  for  a  moment  her  fingers  seemed  to  tighten 
around  his,  as  if  she  knew  that  in  her  wretched 
ness  she  had  at  last  found  a  friend  and  was  re 
luctant  to  let  him  go.  The  next  minute  she  had 
recovered  herself;  and  she  explained  that  see 
ing  an  old  friend  again  unexpectedly  was  such 
a  surprise  and  pleasure  that  it  had  quite  over 
whelmed  her. 

The  minister  looked  gravely  at  her  again. 
There  were  lines  in  his  face — lines  which  often 
gave  him  an  appearance  of  sadness  when  his 
face  was  in  repose.  But  they  vanished  as  his 
face  lighted  up  when  he  spoke.  Elizabeth 
thought,  as  she  regarded  him,  that  his  eyes  were 
the  kindest  she  had  ever  seen.  He  had  always 
been  kind  to  her,  since  her  earliest  recollections. 
Often  he  appeared  quite  grave,  and  sometimes 
even  somewhat  stern,  but  yet  so  kind  always 
that  he  made  her  feel  that  he  was  the  very  per 
son  she  should  go  to  in  any  difficulty. 


A    HELPING    HAND          179 

Her  heart  went  out  to  him,  wracked  as  she 
was,  and  torn  by  doubts  and  fears.  It  seemed 
to  her  all  at  once  that  just  to  know  that  he  was 
in  the  world  made  her  feel  calmer,  more  com 
fortable.  She  felt  that  it  would  be  easy  to  go 
straight  to  him  and  tell  him  everything — vastly 
easier  than  to  make  a  confidant  of  her  father 
or  her  mother,  or  indeed  anybody  else.  She 
told  herself,  as  she  looked  at  him  affectionately, 
that  he  was  the  very  ideal  of  what  a  clergyman 
ought  to  be,  but  what  so  few  seemed — someone 
to  put  trust  in. 

It  was  a  boon,  a  blessing  to  her,  to  find  him 
there,  when  she  had  been  feeling  that  there  was 
nobody  in  the  world  in  whom  she  could  confide. 
When  she  told  him  how  pleased  she  was  to  see 
him  he  did  not  smirk,  or  say  that  he  felt  flat 
tered,  as  everybody  had  seemed  to  do  since 
her  marriage.  Wealth  was  not  included  in 
Thomas  Cartwright's  objects  of  worship.  He 
merely  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  gravely  and 
sternly  too.  But  Elizabeth  knew  thai  the  stern 
ness  was  not  meant  for  her. 


180    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

n 

She  told  him  all.  There  in  the  somber  still 
ness  of  the  unfrequented  library  Elizabeth  un 
burdened  her  soul  of  its  dragging  weight  of 
sorrow  and  bitterness  and  perplexity. 

He  heard  her  through  to  the  very  end.  And 
when  she  had  quite  finished  he  said  in  a  low 
voice — 

"It's  a  bad  business.  But  we  must  make  the 
best  of  it,"  he  continued.  "You  are  a  brave 
girl,  to  tell  me  these  things,  and  we  must  see 
that  your  future  is  assured.  Thank  God !  you 
came  to  me  with  your  troubles.  It 's  what  we  're 
for,  we  ministers — to  help  the  weary  and  heavy- 
laden.  Your  troubles  are  not  insurmountable, 
my  child.  They  are  all  too  common  in  this  age. 
But  unfortunately  too  many  people  blunder  in 
the  solution  of  their  difficulties." 

Elizabeth  jumped  up,  seized  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  and  leaning  upon  the  table  behind 
which  he  sat  she  looked  across  at  him  and  asked 
passionately — 


A   HELPING   HAND         181 

"What  did  lie  marry  me  for,  Mr.  Cart- 
wright  ?" 

In  the  midst  of  his  gravity  and  sternness 
he  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  almost  as  if  she 
had  said  something  amusing. 

' 'I  don't  think  any  one  would  find  any  difficulty 
in  ascribing  a  reason  for  a  man's  wishing 
to  marry  you,  my  dear,"  he  said,  so  quietly 
that  although  she  knew  what  he  meant,  it 
scarcely  sounded  like  the  flattering  speech  it 
was. 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  "I  should  think  a  dif 
ferent  type  of  woman  would  have  appealed  to 
him — a  woman  who  was  gayer,  who  was  less 
reserved  than  I,  someone  who  was  less  sensi 
tive  and  oh !  quite  a  different  person  altogether 
from  me;  someone  he  would  not  find  boring, 
as  I  know  I  have  been  from  the  time  we  were 
married.  Really,  I  don't  think  I'm  at  all  the 
sort  of  woman  he  could  have  expected  to  live 
with  comfortably.  And  he  knew  that  I  did  not 
love  him.  He  was  older — vastly  more  expe 
rienced.  He  should  have  known,  he  must  have 


182    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

known,  that  without  love — passionate  love — 
real  marriage  is  impossible." 

The  Eev.  Thomas  Cartwright  sat  upright 
suddenly  in  his  chair. 

"Ah!  that's  the  common  mistake!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "It  is  one  of  the  great  fallacies  that 
it  is  passion  that  consecrates  the  union  of  a 
man  and  a  woman.  If  it  were  true  that  it  did, 
there  would  be  fewer  successful  marriages  than 
there  are  in  the  world.  There  are  very  few 
grande  passions.  It  is  a  thing  that  comes  to 
but  few.  Many  think  they  are  experiencing 
it,  to  discover  their  error  quickly.  What  they 
mistake  for  an  enduring  flame  is  likely  to  die 
as  quickly  as  it  grew." 

Elizabeth  was  puzzled. 

"But  love — real  love — should  be  the  only 
basis  of  marriage,  don't  you  think?"  she  asked 
him. 

"Love?  Hm  .  .  .  Love,  dear  young  lady,  is 
a  much  overworked  commodity.  There  are 
many  erroneous  ideas  concerning  it.  Most  of 


A   HELPING   HAND         183 

them  have  been  inculcated  by  writers  of  fiction 
— the  authors  of  novels,  and  plays  too — who 
find  in  love  the  easiest  capital  out  of  which  to 
forge  their  so-called  masterpieces.  A  strug 
gling  literary  man  discovered  a  long  time  ago 
that  it  pleased  the  public  mightily  to  be  told  that 
love  was  sufficient  excuse  for  almost  any  course 
of  action  his  ingenuity  might  devise.  And  so 
many  other  writers  have  exploited  his  idea  in 
various  ways  that  one  can't  pick  up  a  newspaper 
to-day  without  being  confronted  with  some  *  af 
finity'  story.  The  very  common  use  of  the  vul 
gar  term  'affinity'  shows  the  general  attitude 
upon  the  subject.  The  kernel  around  which  the 
majority  of  popular  novels — the  much-vaunted 
'best-sellers' — are  constructed  is  'Love  is  Us 
own  law/  It's  not  only  a  ridiculous  theory — 
it's  absolutely  vicious. 

"I  didn't  come  to  Newport  expecting  to  read 
a  sermon,"  he  told  her  with  a  smile.  "And  if 
I  do  preach  a  little  private  one  to  you,  you'll 
understand,  I  hope,  that  it's  intended  not  as  a 


184    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

reproach  but  a  help.  And  it  will  be  the  sort  of 
sermon,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  that  is  seldom  or  never 
heard  from  the  pulpit — mo  re's  the  pity." 

As  Cartwright  paused  Elizabeth  turned  her 
eager  face  toward  his. 

' '  Oh,  I  know  that  you  want  to  help  me, ' '  she 
said.  "I  know  that  you're  wise,  and  kind,  and 
good.  If — if  I  could  only  have  had  you  to 
guide  me  in  the  beginning  I'm  sure  all  this 
trouble  would  never  have  come  to  me." 

"My  dear — none  of  us  is  omniscient,"  he  said 
gently.  "What's  done  is  done.  And  about  all 
we  seem  to  be  able  to  do  in  our  poor  human  way 
is  to  try  to  rectify  our  mistakes  after  we  have 
made  them.  The  unfortunate  thing  about  life 
is  that  we  are  so  little  able  to  profit  by  such 
wisdom  as  comes  from  the  experience  of  others' 
long  years  of  living.  Each  of  us  has  to  learn 
the  lesson  anew.  All  my  own  life,  for  instance, 
has  been  passed  in  learning,  painfully — and 
often  sorrowfully — what  hosts  of  men  must  have 
learned  before  me.  Why  can  not  such  knowl 
edge  be  handed  down  in  some  way  to  the  grow- 


A   HELPING    HAND          185 

ing  generations'?  It's  the  saddest  thing  I  know 
— the  most  maddening,  too — that  we  spend  the 
greater  part  of  our  time  on  this  earth  learning 
how  to  live  in  it.  And  by  the  time  we  have 
really  discovered  something  definite  of  life's 
mysteries,  then  it's  usually  too  late  to  turn  our 
knowledge  to  account.  We're  old  then.  Our 
course  is  run.  And  because  we  have  arrived  at 
conclusions  that  do  not  fit  in  with  the  ideas  of 
the  young,  whom  we  would  help  during  the  few 
years  that  remain  to  us,  we're  branded  as  do 
tards,  out  of  step  with  the  times,  out  of  sym 
pathy  with  youth."  In  the  Rev.  Thomas  Cart- 
wright's  eyes  there  glowed  an  unaccustomed 
fire.  It  struck  Elizabeth  that  he  was  strangely 
stirred  by  the  thoughts  that  his  words  ex 
pressed. 

m 

*  *  My  child, ' '  he  went  on, ' '  I  '11  tell  you — as  I  Ve 
told  no  one  before — the  things  that  I  have 
passed  my  life  in  learning.  I've  tried  to  tell 
them  before,  but  no  one  would  listen  to  them. 


186    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

Some  day  perhaps  some  second  John  the  Bap 
tist  will  emerge  from  the  wilderness  of  false 
standards,  mistaken  ideals,  and  mushy  senti 
mentality  that  the  world  is  wandering  through 
and  will  proclaim  the  truth  in  flaming  words. 
He  will  be  a  true  prophet,  inspired  and  sent  by 
God  to  enlighten  humanity.  But  the  time  is  not 
yet  come.  Long  ago  I  found  that  I  was  not  the 
man  to  bear  the  message.  You  see,"  he  said, 
turning  to  her  sadly,  "I'm  just  a  weak,  im 
potent  mortal.  My  impress  upon  the  world  is  in 
finitesimal.  I  can  only  do  what  I  can  in  my  own 
little,  humble  way.  It  has  often  been  borne  in 
upon  me  that  my  life  was  wasted — spent  in  vain 
in  the  futile  pursuit  of  ministering  to  a  fash 
ionable  parish  to  which  I  have  never  been  able 
to  drive  home  a  single  great  truth.  But  if  I 
can  help  you — if  I  can  guide  just  one  tortured 
soul  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light — I  shall 
feel  wondrously  blessed,  for  the  Lord  will  have 
permitted  me  to  accomplish  a  great  thing." 

Tears  glistened  in  his  eyes  now,  but  with  an 
effort  he  pulled  himself  together  and  continued. 


A   HELPING    HAND         187 

"We  think  we  live  in  an  enlightened  age; 
while  in  reality  we're  groping  about  in  a  maze 
of  misinformation.  To  begin  with,  our  theories 
of  conduct  for  some  hundreds  of  years  have  been 
molded  by  imaginative  writers  whose  aim  has 
been,  not  the  dissemination  of  truth,  but  the 
tickling  of  the  fancy  of  their  readers.  These 
dramatists  and  novelists  have  had  to  produce 
works  that  the  public  liked — else  they  starved. 
Moliere  began  it,  by  the  exalting  of  heroes  and 
heroines  who  set  the  gratification  of  passion 
above  all  else — above  family  honor,  civic  duty, 
and  patriotism. 

"Marriage  is  bound  up  inextricably  with  the 
welfare  of  society — its  safety  and  honor.  Mar 
riage  is  primarily  a  social  act.  It  is  individual, 
of  necessity,  and  religious  as  well.  But  we  must 
never  forget  that  its  morality  is  first  of  all  a 
social  morality,  because  it  so  vitally  concerns 
social  existence. 

"These  are  generalizations,  it  is  true,  but 
they  are  necessary  to  a  real  understanding  of 
your  own  problem.  I  think  you  will  agree  with 


188    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

me  when  I  say  that  young  people  form  their 
ideas  of  marriage  from  plays  and  novels,  and 
not  from  the  teachings  of  ethical  writers — least 
of  all  from  what  could  be  the  great  predominant 
teacher  of  Christian  ethics — the  Church.  For 
the  Church,  with  a  wealth  of  material  upon 
which  to  base  its  theories,  is  terribly  dumb  upon 
this  vital  question. 

"The  great  obstacle  to  a  clear  understanding 
of  marriage  is  found  in  the  fact  that  we  are  liv 
ing  in  a  literary  age.  Our  popular  writers  as 
cribe  as  the  sole  basis  of  marriage  what  they 
term  love — a  love  which  is  nothing  more  or  less 
than  eroticism.  And  the  appalling  error  of 
their  teaching  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  ignore 
the  truth  that  the  only  sort  of  love  that  conse 
crates  marriage  possesses  a  moral  nature  and 
has  a  distinct  reference  to  a  moral  society  which 
surrounds  it.  It  is  concerned  with  social  facts 
— the  welfare  of  the  state. 

"But  this  moral  kind  of  love  is  a  thing  which 
takes  into  account  greater  considerations  than 
merely  the  affections  of  the  individual,  and  is  a 


A   HELPING    HAND          189 

very  different  thing  from  the  natural  and  purely 
selfish  love  with  which  the  pages  of  the  popular 
novels  reek.  Almost  every  'successful'  play  or 
novel  fairly  stuffs  the  public  with  its  vicious 
assumption  that  the  ideal  love  is  one  consist 
ing  of  mutual  passion.  The  great  bulk  of  liter 
ary  and  dramatic  work  nowadays  turns  upon 
such  subjects  as  married  infidelity  and  heart 
break.  And  the  public  likes  it — alas!  And  it 
files  out  of  the  theater  or  lays  down  its  book 
at  midnight  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  con 
templation  of  the  petty,  sensuous,  selfish  emo 
tions  of  the  cheap  puppets  created  by  the  au 
thors'  brains.  There's  no  thought  of  society 
in  all  this  sentimentality.  There's  no  recog 
nition  that  the  unit  of  society  is  the  family ;  and 
that  the  destruction  of  everyone  of  those  units 
is  a  blow — a  vicious,  immoral  onslaught — upon 
the  social  structure. 

"  Marriage,  as  it  should  exist  if  it  is  to  work 
for  the  good  of  the  race — which  is  its  only  log 
ical  excuse  for  being — marriage  concerns  much 
more  than  the  affections  of  the  parties  thereto. 


190    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

Bound  up  in  the  marriage  of  every  two  who 
enter  into  that  solemn  contract  is  the  welfare 
of  the  community.  But  as  we  observe  the  con 
crete  examples  of  marriage  that  are  everywhere 
about  us  we  see  all  the  emphasis  placed  upon 
the  liberty  of  the  contracting  parties.  The 
world  has  adopted  the  view  that  marriage  is  a 
private  affair — than  which  no  view  could  be 
more  erroneous.  It  is  much  more  than  private ; 
it  is  social :  for  in  it  is  wrapped  the  fate  of  the 
family.  It  is  astonishing  that  society  permits 
such  ignorance  of  that  fact  to  prevail.  It  is 
amazing  that  mutual  passion  is  commonly  held 
to  be  the  only  factor  to  be  considered  in  the 
union  of  a  man  and  a  woman.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  world  the  marriage  service  is  but  a  mum 
bling  of  promises  which  the  makers  feel  at 
liberty  to  disregard  at  will. 

* '  Now  there  must  be  a  reason  for  the  currency 
of  such  views.  What  has  been  the  influence  that 
has  so  warped  the  common  sense — not  to  say  the 
morality — of  the  public?  The  answer  is  again, 
vicious  literature ;  for  it  promulgates  the  views 


A   HELPING    HAND          191 

that  are  best  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  the 
money-grubbing  writer.  Moral,  conscientious, 
sane-minded  people,  living  in  righteous  wedlock, 
do  not  lend  themselves  to  the  construction  of 
sensational  plots  and  erotic  episodes.  Put  into 
books,  or  behind  the  footlights,  they  make  but 
poor,  humdrum  stories  and  plays." 

IV 

The  minister's  words  brought  little  solace  to 
Elizabeth  Dunham.  Where  was  the  solution  to 
her  problem?  If  it  lay  in  her  passive  accep 
tance  of  his  theories,  then  she  faced  the  obliga 
tion  of  continuing  to  live  with  her  husband,  and 
upon  a  decidedly  different  basis  from  that  which 
had  existed  between  her  and  Ralph  up  to  that 
time. 

Cartwright  guessed  something  of  her  thoughts 
and  he  waited  for  the  questions  which  he  felt 
sure  must  follow  his  statements. 

"What  you  say  is  quite  true,  I  suppose," 
Elizabeth  said  at  last.  "But  it's  so  easy  to  ac 
cept  such  views  as  applied  to  the  rest  of  the 


192    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

world — and  so  hard  to  accept  them  as  applied 
to  oneself.  I  may  be  very  wrong — terribly 
wicked — but  even  for  the  sake  of  society  I'm 
sure  I  cannot  continue  to  remain  Ralph's  wife. 
And  if  I  find  it  impossible  to  do  that,  how  much 
more  abhorrent  would  it  be  to  me  to  enter  into 
a  life  with  him  which  would  conform  to  your 
ideal  of  a  moral  marriage  1  How  can  you  think 
it  possible  for  me  to — to  take  up  my  share  in  a 
marriage  which  would  constitute  a  unit  such  as 
you  talk  about — a  family?  For  that  would 
mean — that  I  would  have  to  live  my  life  under 
conditions  that  would  be  revolting  to  me.  No ! 
No!  I  never  could  do  it — I'm  sure.  Is  there 
no  other  way?  There  must  be — there  must 
be!" 

She  was  only  a  woman,  after  all — emotional, 
and  hysterical  as  well.  And  Thomas  Cart- 
wright  reflected  that  he  must  not  expect  her  to 
yield  up  her  instinctive  impulses  without  a 
struggle,  if  indeed  she  relinquished  them  at  all. 
But  she  had  a  soul  worth  saving;  and  he  did  not 
lose  heart.  His  was  the  obligation  to  save  it; 


A   HELPING    HAND         193 

he  owed  the  duty  to  himself — to  her — to  the 
Church — to  the  Master. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  " there  is  a  posi 
tive  ideal  of  marriage.  And  having  made  your 
marriage  before  God  it  is  incumbent  upon  you, 
as  far  as  it  may  be  in  your  power,  to  attain  that 
ideal.  In  Malachi  the  purpose  of  marriage  is 
declared  to  be  the  sowing  of  the  Godly  seed, 
which  is  simply  another  way  of  saying  that 
marriages  should  be  fruitful — that  they  should 
be  productive  of  righteous  children  and  so  con 
ducive  to  a  better  race. 

"There  is  the  way  blazed  for  you,"  he  said. 
And  he  breathed  a  silent  prayer  that  she  would 
follow  the  path,  difficult  though  it  might  be. 

"Ah!"  Elizabeth  cried — "it's  cruel — cruel! 
Why  should  I  be  punished  for  my  blind  igno 
rance?  If  I've  lost  my  way,  is  there  no  other 
road  I  can  take?  No  other  course  that  will 
lead  me  out  of  this  terrible  maze  I  ' ' 

"No  other  path  that  you  can  take  and  look 
your  Maker  in  the  face,"  he  told  her,  though  it 
hurt  him  to  see  her  suffer  so. 


194    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

I  'But  I  should  be  unhappy — you  don't  know 
how  unhappy  I'd  be!    You're  a  man  and  you 
can't   understand.    I    should    be    miserable — 
wretched !    My  life  would  be  one  continual  tor 
ment  of  soul." 

She  dropped  her  face  upon  the  table  and  fell 
into  a  fit  of  violent  weeping.  Great  sobs  shook 
her  shoulders;  in  both  mind  and  body  she  was 
wracked  by  her  mingled  grief  and  hopeless 
ness. 

"I  thought  that  being  married  meant  being 
happy,"  she  said  at  last,  after  the  paroxysm 
had  passed.  "Perhaps  it  does,  for  others;  but 
for  me  marriage  has  meant  nothing  but  unhap- 
piness." 

II  Don't  feel  that  there's  no  hope,"  he  said,  in 
an  attempt  to  hearten  her.    " It's  a  very  foolish 
mistake  that  most  people  make  to  think  that 
when  they  are  married  they  are  going  to  live 
happily  ever  after.    Very,  very  few  individuals 
are  so  constituted  that  they  can  live  with  any 
other  person  upon  the  intimate  terms  that  mar 
riage  necessitates  without  discovering  that  the 


A    HELPING    HAND          195 

state  of  matrimony  is  not  a  bed  of  thornless 
roses.  Even  the  most  successful — the  ideal — 
marriage,  requires  the  passage  of  time,  of  years, 
— yes,  of  a  lifetime,  to  ripen  as  nearly  into  per 
fection  as  may  be  possible.  You  see,  it  is  a  ques 
tion  of  heart-culture,  and  just  as  the  cultiva 
tion  of  any  living,  growing  thing  is  a  matter  of 
effort,  involving  labor  and  difficulty,  so  does 
even  the  ideal  marriage  necessitate  careful  nur 
ture  which  may — and  probably  will — require 
both  pain  and  sacrifice. 

"Nor  is  the  ideal  marriage  by  any  means 
free  from  friction.  When  the  first  storm  bursts 
— in  the  shape  of  the  first  difference  or  quarrel 
— most  young  couples  think  that  the  sky  has 
fallen.  And  they  often  go  on  through  life,  look 
ing  upon  every  petty  disagreement  or  mis 
understanding  as  a  tragedy.  That,  of  course, 
is  an  absurd  way  to  regard  what  is  generally 
but  a  trivial  and  momentary  friction,  the  result 
often  of  nothing  more  aesthetic  than  an  attack 
of  indigestion." 

Elizabeth's  eyes  opened  wide  in  astonishment 


196    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

as  she  heard  the  Rev.  Thomas  Cartwright's  un 
expected  information  as  to  happiness  in  mar 
riage. 

''I  know,"  he  said,  observing  her  surprise. 
' '  I  know  that  that  is  not  what  you  had  thought 
could  exist  when  a  man  and  woman  were  wisely 
mated.  I  think  that  nearly  all  young  married 
people  harbor  the  same  misunderstanding  of 
the  true  facts.  And  marrying  as  they  do  with 
the  mistaken  belief  that  they  are  entering  upon 
a  perpetual  billing  and  cooing,  when  they  find 
that  they  are  not  absolutely  happy — that  there 
are  difficulties  to  be  overcome,  attended  by  sor 
row  and  pain — their  first  impulse  is  to  rush  into 
the  divorce  courts. ' ' 

Elizabeth  was  conscious  of  a  hot  flush  of  guilt 
which  overspread  her  cheeks  as  she  listened  to 
the  wise  old  man's  words.  It  was  clear  that 
he  had  observed  much  during  his  lifetime — far 
more  than  she  would  have  suspected.  But  did 
all  his  advice  really  apply  to  her?  Upon  sec 
ond  thought  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  all 
the  time  been  shooting  over  the  mark.  She  did 


A   HELPING   HAND         197 

not  love  her  husband!  There  was  the  crux  of 
the  whole  situation.  It  was  all  very  well  for 
Mr.  Cartwright  to  tell  her  that  a  husband  and 
wife  must  expect  friction  of  a  trivial  sort,  and 
overcome  it  with  patience  and  forbearance ;  but 
her  good  old  friend  had  in  mind  people  who  were 
at  least  more  or  less  in  love  with  each  other. 
And  how  different  was  the  case  of  her  and 
Ralph!  She  did  not  love  him!  There  lay  the 
difficulty  of  applying  the  old  minister's  advice 
to  her  own  problem.  She  did  not  love  her  hus 
band.  That  saving  grace  was  lacking;  and  to 
her  mind,  love  being  absent,  any  attempt  to  re 
arrange  her  life  with  Ralph  was  futile. 

v 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,"  she  told 
Cartwright.  ' '  You  see,  I  don 't  love  my  husband. 
I  dare  say  it  was  very  wrong  of  me  to  marry 
him;  but  I  do  not  seem  to  have  comprehended 
what  I  was  doing.  And  I  was  honest.  I  told 
him  I  did  not  love  him.  So  now  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  only  thing  we  can  do  is  to  part.  If — 


198    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

if  I  cared  for  him  I  could  do  the  thing  that  you 
ask  of  me — or  appear  to  expect  of  me.  But  I 
don't  love  him  and  I  can  never  go  on." 

Cartwright,  however,  was  undismayed  by  her 
immense  conviction. 

11  Perhaps  I  understand  better  than  you 
think,"  he  said  softly.  "Let  us  hope  I  do,  at 
least.  You  say  that  you  do  not  love  your  hus 
band,  and  that  not  loving  him  you  feel  that  di 
vorce  is  necessary.  That  is  your  conviction. 
But  I  hope  that  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  to 
change  your  opinion.  It  has  never  occurred  to 
you,  probably,  any  more  than  it  has  to  most 
unhappily  married  people  who  have  either 
entered  upon  matrimony  with  no  affection  for 
the  other  contracting  party,  or  who,  having  mar 
ried  with  the  mistaken  idea  that  they  have 
cherished  a  grande  passion,  have  discovered 
that  they  ceased  to  love — it  has  never  occurred 
either  to  them  or  to  you  that  the  affections  may 
be  controlled.  That  is  not  the  popular  view — 
the  literary  view — but  it  is  none  the  less  cor 
rect." 


A    HELPING    HAND          199 

To  Elizabeth  it  was  a  startling  theory,  that 
one  might  at  will  love  where  one  did  not.  And 
it  was  a  theory  which  at  once  struck  her  as 
highly  absurd  and  absolutely  impracticable. 

"You  mean — that  I  can  learn  to  love  my  hus 
band?"  she  asked,  her  voice  full  of  the  doubt 
which  she  felt  so  strongly. 

"Precisely.  The  thing  may  be  accomplished, 
impossible  as  it  may  appear  upon  the  face  of  it. 
The  process  is  of  a  two-fold  nature — positive 
and  negative.  As  for  the  negative  means — you 
will  agree  with  me,  I  think,  that  one  can  at  least 
remove  oneself  from  such  influences  as  tend  to 
divert  his  affections  from  their  legitimate  ob 
ject.  A  woman  need  not  listen  to  the  impor 
tunities  of  a  lover,  so-called.  She  need  not  per 
mit  his  advances  or  attentions.  She  need  not 
even  see  him.  And  by  breaking  off  all  relations 
with  him  she  will  have  accomplished  the  first 
great  step  toward  the  proper  and  moral  rehabil 
itation  of  her  affections." 

She  knew  what  he  meant.  He  meant  that  she 
must  break  with  Craig.  Never  to  see  his  eager, 


200    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

solicitous  eyes ;  never  to  hear  his  voice,  vibrant 
with  words  of  love  and  adoration ;  never  to  feel 
the  sympathetic  touch  of  his  hand  upon  hers; 
never  again  to  open  a  longed-for  letter  from  him 
and  thrill  under  the  fervor  of  its  message! 
Could  she  do  it?  Could  she  deliberately  deny 
herself  the  things  which  were  as  the  breath  of 
life  to  her?  Her  heart  sank  at  the  mere  con 
templation  of  the  prospect. 

* '  That  is  the  first  step  for  you,  my  child.  And 
having  taken  it  you  will  have  placed  yourself 
in  a  position  to  undertake  the  positive  acts 
which  in  the  end  will  bring  you  happiness,  as 
we  know  it  on  this  earth.  Christ  said — 'Love 
ye  your  enemies.9  What  is  that,  I  ask,  but  a 
command  to  be  master  of  our  affections?  He 
knew  in  His  divine  wisdom  that  the  feat  was 
possible  of  attainment.  It's  quite  in  accord 
with  what  we  know  nowadays  of  psychology. 
Having  given  the  command,  Our  Lord  went 
further  and  laid  out  a  definite  course  of  action 
to  be  followed :  for  did  He  not  say,  'Bless  them 
that  curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you, 


A   HELPING    HAND         201 

and  pray  for  them  that  despitefully  use  you'? 
In  those  few  words  lie  the  precept  that  I  would 
have  you  follow,  in  principle.  Their  meaning, 
translated  into  every-day  language,  is  this :  that 
kindly  acts  give  rise  to  kindly  feelings  toward 
their  recipient.  Any  student  of  psychology 
will  tell  you  that  repeated  actions  constitute 
training.  A  thing  performed  often  enough  be 
comes  a  habit.  Therefore  if  we  conduct  our 
selves  consistently  in  a  loving  way  towards 
others,  in  the  course  of  time  love  for  those 
others  will  be  instilled  in  us.  Like  begets  like. 
Deeds  of  loving  kindness  breed  love  in  their 
doer. 

"This  is  not  my  advice,  my  dear.  It  is 
Christ's  teaching.  Only  follow  it  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  wondrously  repaid.  For  the  time 
will  come  when  you  will  render  heartfelt  thanks 
unto  Him,  because  you  will  love  your  husband. 
And  loving  him,  it  will  be  your  happiness  to 
be  a  helpmeet  for  him,  to  honor  and  cherish 
him  so  long  as  you  both  live." 


I 

WHEN  he  left  town  upon  the  Nomad,  Dunham 
had  hoped  to  gain  some  respite  from  the  bur 
den  of  sorrow  which  had  attached  itself  like 
some  incubus  to  his  shoulders.  In  the  fresh 
breezes  of  the  New  England  coast  he  had  looked 
for  rejuvenation;  and  he  had  thought  with  an 
immense  longing  of  the  nights,  when  if  he  could 
not  sleep,  he  might  at  least  lie  in  a  deck-chair 
beneath  the  sky  and  look  out  upon  the  peace  of 
the  moon-kissed  water  as  the  yacht  lay  at 
anchor  in  some  quiet  harbor. 

But  except  for  one  night  even  that  boon  was 
denied  him.  They  had  scarcely  left  the  swell 
off  New  London  behind  them  when  the  wireless 
operator  picked  up  a  message  which  told  Dun 
ham  that  his  presence  was  required  in  New 

202 


IN    THE    DARK   WATCHES    203 

York.  So  the  next  morning  the  yacht's  nose 
would  be  turned  back  toward  the  metropolis. 

Dunham  was  conscious  of  an  unconquerable 
shrinking  from  the  business  that  demanded  his 
attention.  He  had  lost  his  zest  for  the  game 
which  of  old  had  always  had  such  a  fascination 
for  him.  Never  since  his  return  from  his  honey 
moon  had  he  recovered  his  grip  upon  his  af 
fairs.  His  interest  no  longer  lay  in  the  accumu 
lation  of  wealth — a  proceeding  which  now  palled 
upon  him  unspeakably.  All  his  thoughts  cen 
tered  irrevocably  about  a  slip  of  a  girl.  Noth 
ing  on  earth  except  her  could  awaken  his  least 
concern.  And  alas !  she  cared  less  than  nothing 
for  him. 

A  fortnight  had  passed  since  he  last  saw 
Elizabeth.  It  was  at  The  Knolls,  memorable  to 
him  as  the  place  where  his  hopes  had  risen,  only 
to  die  quickly  when  he  discovered  that  she  was 
still  obviously  wretched  with  him. 

At  last  Dunham  had  come  to  despair  utterly 
of  ever  being  anything  more  to  her  than  a  hin 
drance  to  her  happiness.  She  had  been  trapped 


204    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

into  marriage  and  he  was  the  drag  attached  to 
the  trap.  She  strained  away  from  the  hateful 
clog  as  far  as  the  chains  of  matrimony  allowed. 
But  she  knew  that  he  was  always  there;  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  escape. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  were  ever-present  in 
his  mind.  They  drove  all  else  completely  out 
of  his  head.  He  was  melancholy.  And  a  mor 
bid  conviction  of  his  uselessness  fixed  itself  upon 
him  like  an  obsession.  To  his  disordered  vis 
ion  all  his  efforts  in  life  seemed  vain.  He  could 
not  convince  himself  that  "he  had  ever  been  of 
any  benefit  to  the  world.  He  told  himself  again 
and  again  that  if  only  he  could  make  Elizabeth 
happy  he  would  have  accomplished  an  immense 
thing — something  which  would  have  justified  his 
existence.  But  now  he  could  discern  no  reason 
for  his  being. 

n 

At  night,  as  he  stood  alone  at  the  rail  of  the 
Nomad  and  looked  down  upon  the  face  of  the 
water  a  sudden  longing  came  over  him  to  drop 


205 

into  the  gently  heaving  swell.  The  sea  was  like 
a  cradle,  rocked  by  some  invisible  hand ;  and  he 
felt  that  it  offered  him  incomparable  rest. 
Eest !  rest !  that  was  what  he  wanted  now.  And 
this  would  be  a  perfect  rest,  for  it  would  be 
without  an  end.  It  was  the  only  logical  solu 
tion  of  his  difficulties.  It  would  permit  Eliza 
beth  to  find  happiness  where  she  would ;  and  of 
late  Dunham  had  little  doubt  that  Elizabeth 
could  be  happy  with  someone — some  other  more 
fortunate  man  than  he.  He  had  noticed  that 
Craig  Clifton  was  invariably  included  among 
guests  invited  to  The  Knolls  and  he  could  not 
but  remark  that  Elizabeth  and  the  young  law 
yer  were  often  together.  Even  to  Dunham  it 
seemed  strange  that  the  fact  bred  no  resent 
ment  in  his  heart.  It  only  made  him  sadder — 
only  confirmed  his  feeling  of  hopelessness. 

He  straightened  up  and  looked  about  him. 
There  was  no  one  near.  His  guests  were  all 
asleep  in  their  state-rooms  and  none  of  the 
night-watch  was  in  sight.  He  leaned  over  the 
rail  again  and  bent  nearer  the  water.  The  sea 


206    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

seemed  to  call  to  him — "Come — come!  I  will 
take  you  gently  to  my  bosom  and  lull  you  into 
peaceful  sleep.  Come — come!'* 

The  temptation  to  obey  almost  overpowered 
him.  Something  within  him — some  deeply- 
rooted  instinct  of  self-preservation — made  his 
hands  close  upon  the  rail  in  a  desperate  grip. 
And  still  he  felt  an  enormous  longing  to  slip 
stealthily  into  the  lapping  swell.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  it  would  all  be  over.  It  was  such  a  simple 
thing  to  do.  A  six-foot  drop  and  the  deed  would 
be  accomplished. 

What  would  people  say  of  him?  They  would 
call  him  a  coward,  just  as  he  had  called  other 
men  cowards  who  had  chosen  that  way  of  end 
ing  their  troubles.  He  winced  at  the  thought. 
And  slowly  he  drew  back  from  the  yacht 's  side. 
No!  that  should  never  be  said  of  him.  He 
shivered  as  he  realized  how  near  he  had  been 
to  self-destruction.  And  in  the  stillness  he 
breathed  a  prayer — he  who  never  prayed — he 
breathed  a  prayer  of  thanks  to  the  Almighty 
because  he  had  seen  in  time. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    RENUNCIATION 
I 

THOUGH  Craig  Clifton  did  not  know  it,  Eliza 
beth  consecrated  to  him  a  long  night  of  mem 
ories  and  tears.  Many  times  she  wavered  in 
her  decision;  but  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  in 
at  her  windows  it  discovered  her  asleep  at  last, 
resigned  to  the  stern  duty  that  Thomas  Cart- 
wright  had  shown  her  to  be  hers. 

In  just  one  respect  she  had  not  been  able  to 
accept  the  line  of  conduct  he  had  urged  upon 
her.  He  had  admonished  her  not  to  see  Craig 
again — a  denial  which  she  found  impossible  to 
impose  upon  herself.  She  felt  that  she  must 
meet  him  once  more.  She  had  tried  to  write 
him  of  her  determination,  and  had  given  up  the 
task  as  utterly  hopeless.  Her  thoughts  would 
not  mold  themselves  into  words  which  she  could 

207 


208    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

set  down  on  paper.  Yes!  she  must  see  Craig 
and  break  the  news  to  him  as  best  she  could. 

Accordingly  Elizabeth  left  Newport  that  very 
morning,  having  first  sent  her  lover  a  message 
which  asked  him  to  meet  her  when  she  should 
reach  New  York. 

Clifton  had  cajoled  the  gate- guard  in  the  sta 
tion  to  let  him  pass  through  to  the  train-shed, 
and  there  he  met  her,  unsuspecting,  eager,  and 
smiling,  almost  as  soon  as  she  stepped  from  the 
car.  He  insisted  upon  taking  her  to  one  of  the 
big  Fifth  Avenue  restaurants  for  tea  and  Eliza 
beth  yielded  to  his  urging.  They  found  the 
hotel,  as  they  expected,  virtually  deserted,  for 
at  that  season  the  patrons  of  all  the  fashionable 
places  of  refreshment  were  scattered  to  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth,  far  away  from  the  de 
pressing  heat  of  New  York  in  summer. 

He  found  Elizabeth  strangely  silent.  And  yet 
she  would  not  tell  him  the  reason  for  her  quiet 
ness.  Deserted  as  the  big  room  was,  except  for 
themselves  and  a  few  waiters  hovering  here  and 
there  in  the  background,  she  felt  that  it  was  still 


THE    RENUNCIATION       209 

no  place  for  her  to  tell  him  of  her  decision. 

"Take  me  home,  please,"  she  said,  when  she 
had  finished  the  iced  beverage  which  Clifton 
had  ordered  for  her.  The  dainty  confections 
which  he  had  bade  the  waiter  bring  lay  un 
touched  before  her.  Food  was  the  last  thing 
she  had  any  desire  for. 

"Are  you  ill!"  Clifton  asked  solicitously, 
as  he  put  her  thin  silk  coat  about  her  shoulders. 

"No  —  not  ill.  Just  tired!"  she  told  him. 
She  could  not  tell  him  the  truth  —  yet.  She 
could  not  tell  him  of  the  dull  ache  in  her 
heart,  of  the  hopelessness  which  weighed  her 
down  with  its  crushing  load. 


Clifton's  car  carried  them  quickly  to  the  Dun 
hams  '  town-house.  The  big  stone  mansion  pre 
sented  a  forbiddingly  deserted  appearance  as 
they  climbed  the  steps  ;  but  there  were  servants 
there,  for  Dunham  never  knew  when  he  would 
be  summoned  back  to  New  York  by  some  sud 
den  call  of  business. 


210    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

"Is  Mr.  Dunham  in  town?"  Elizabeth  asked 
the  man  who  opened  the  door. 

"No,  Mrs.  Dunham,  he  went  away  on  the 
Nomad  last  night  and  said  he  did  not  expect  to 
return  until  next  week." 

She  gave  the  servant  her  wraps  and  with 
Clifton  went  on  into  the  library. 

At  last  they  were  alone.  Clifton  looked  at 
her  tenderly. 

"My  darling!"  he  said  softly.  "Do  you 
know  that  you  are  the  most  glorious  being  in 
all  this  wonderful  world  I ' ' 

She  smiled  at  him  wistfully.  There  was  glad 
ness  in  her  face,  for  the  moment,  for  she  saw 
that  her  lover  had  forgotten  in  that  moment  the 
very  existence  on  earth  of  any  except  them 
selves.  She  knew  that  his  infatuation  for  her 
had  immediately  crowded  out  all  thought  of  her 
husband  and  the  unconventional  situation  in 
which  they  were  placed.  She  wished  that  he 
might  never  be  brought  back  to  the  stern  real 
ities  that  faced  them. 

"You're   troubled — "    Craig   whispered,   as 


THE    RENUNCIATION       211 

though  he  half  read  her  thoughts.  "I  realize 
often  that  things  are  difficult  for  you.  But 
when  I  am  with  you  I  forget  everything — ex 
cept  that  we  love  each  other.  With  you  filling 
my  mind  and  heart  there's  no  room  left  for 
troubles. ' ' 

"But  they  exist,  Craig.  All  the  forgetting 
we  can  do  doesn't  make  them  any  the  less," 
she  told  him  sadly.  "I've  been  thinking  about 
them — more  than  you  know." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  that  you 
are  unhappy.  But  you're  bound  to  be  worried 
and  downhearted  so  long  as  things  continue 
as  they  are  now.  Why  not  change  everything? 
Why  not  leave  Dunham?  Neither  of  you  is 
happy  now,  and  I'm  convinced  that  you  would 
be  doing  him  no  unkindness — no  wrong — if  you 
would  break  away  from  this  irksome  yoke  and 
come  to  me." 

For  a  short  space  they  stood  in  silence.  Clif 
ton  felt  with  an  all-conquering  conviction  that 
she  was  rightfully  his.  He  felt  it  was  his  in 
defeasible  privilege  always  to  be  near  her  and 


212    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

comfort  her,  and  to  shield  her  from  whatever 
harm  might  threaten. 

"My  beautiful  Love,"  he  said  turning  to  her 
gently,  "we  belong  to  each  other.  You  are  all 
mine,  and  I  am  wholly  yours.  This  wonderful 
bond  that  brings  us  together  is  too  strong  for 
us  to  ignore." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Craig — "  she  answered  slowly — "we  must 
part.  We  must  forget  each  other.  I've 
thought  it  all  out — and  I'm  convinced." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  go  away  from  you?" 
he  exclaimed — "knowing  that  you  love  me, 
knowing  that  I'd  be  leaving  you  to  a  wretched 
existence?  No!  no!  You're  young,  and  glor 
ious  and  vital!  And  yet  I  could  more  easily 
see  you  dead  than  relinquish  you  to  the  horror 
of  that  living  death  to  which  your  marriage  with 
Dunham  would  condemn  you. '  * 

"Ah,  Craig— try  to  forget  all  that,"  Eliza 
beth  said,  as  she  gazed  long  and  wistfully  into 
his  troubled  eyes. 


THE    RENUNCIATION       213 

"We'll  forget  it — yes,"  he  answered.  And 
a  great  resolve  formulated  itself  fast  within 
his  consciousness.  "We'll  forget  it  together!" 
He  spoke  quickly,  and  she  saw  that  his  sinews 
tightened  as  his  body  quickened  under  the  spur 
of  his  shaping  thought.  "You  must  come  with 
me.  I'll  not  leave  you  to  mourn  your  life  away. 
If  you  won't  leave  Dunham  in  any  other  fash 
ion,  I'll  just  take  you!  Come — come!  We'll 
go  at  once !  We  '11  go  abroad — anywhere — we  '11 
go  by  the  next  boat — to-morrow,  if  there's  one 
leaving. ' ' 

As  his  meaning  impressed  itself  upon  her,  her 
eyes  opened  wide  with  wonder. 

"Oh!  you  are  quite  mad,"  she  cried.  "It  is 
impossible." 

But  Craig  would  not  be  denied. 

"My  dear  one,"  he  urged,  "many  people  have 
done  that.  It  is  by  no  means  an  unheard-of 
thing.  Think  for  a  moment  of  what  life  would 
mean  for  us  two  together!  Our  world  would 
be  flooded  with  the  light  of  love.  And  how  dif 
ferent  from  the  appalling  darkness,  the  inter- 


214    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

minable,  drab  days  of  torment — if  we  part  here. 
I  cannot — I  will  not  leave  you.  I  know  I'm  ask 
ing  you  to  violate  society's  conventions.  I 
know  you'd  be  cut  off  from  all  the  associations, 
every  friend  of  your  girlhood.  But  I  am  will 
ing, — yes,  glad  to  ask  that  sacrifice  of  you,  be 
cause  I'm  sure  you  would  be  happy."  He  had 
taken  her  in  his  arms,  as  he  spoke,  and  drew 
her  to  him  masterfully. 

"Let  me  go,  please,"  Elizabeth  murmured. 
And  Clifton  drew  her  gently  to  a  near-by  seat. 
"It's  not  all  that,  that  stands  in  the  way, 
Craig,"  she  continued  slowly.  "Surely  you 
must  know  that  I  care  enough  for  you  to  make 
me  glad  to  make  such  sacrifices  for  you.  But 
there  is  just  one  sacrifice  I  cannot  make.  I  can 
not  forsake  my  duty." 

"Your  duty!"  Clifton  exclaimed.  "Your 
duty  should  not  require  you  to  devote  your 
whole  life  to  carrying  out  this  farce  between 
you  and  your  husband.  Why!  you're  living  a 
lie!  It's  unnatural — wicked."  And  he  looked 
down  at  her  fiercely  in  his  indignation. 


THE    RENUNCIATION       215 

"Tell  me  you  love  me — tell  me !"  he  said  with 
a  sudden  vehemence  that  might  have  made  her 
half  afraid.  But  she  showed  no  fear. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  love  you,"  she  said — "I — I 
love  you,  and  I  am  afraid  I  shall  always  love 
you!" 

She  was  pale,  her  cheeks  and  a  glimpse  of 
low  forehead  showing  between  the  loose  strands 
of  her  hair  were  creamily  and  purely  pale. 

To  Clifton  she  seemed  lovelier  than  ever. 
And  a  feeling  of  immense  tenderness  swept  over 
him,  and  a  passionate  desire  to  shield  her  from 
all  harm.  Yes — there  was  no  danger — no 
earthly  peril,  that  he  would  not  gladly  face  for 
her  sake,  because  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  loved 
her  as  a  man  is  destined  to  love  just  one  woman 
out  of  the  whole  world  of  women. 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"Come!"  she  said,  "there  are  some  things 
that  I — that  I — must  tell  you."  And  she  drew 
him  down  upon  the  seat  beside  her. 

For  a  brief  minute  she  said  nothing — but  her 
eyes  drank  in  thirstily  the  light  that  burnt  in 


216    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

his.  And  Clifton  was  supremely  happy  then, 
as  he  sat  there  silently  with  this  slender,  fair- 
haired  woman,  who — to  him — represented  the 
happy  legion  of  the  all-desired. 

"Craig!"  she  said  at  last,  "I  have  come  to 
tell  you  something  that  will  hurt  you  frightfully 
— as  it  has  hurt  me.  Oh !  I  know !  for  is  not  my 
own  heart  breaking?  I've  come — to  tell  you 
that  I  cannot  go  on  like  this.  At  last  I've  seen 
things  clearly.  I've  been  a  wicked  woman  even 
to  dream  of  happiness  with  you.  I've  forgot 
ten  my  marriage  vows — the  promises  that  I 
made  before  God.  That  I  didn't  realize  all 
they  meant  must  make  no  difference.  I  must 
accept  the  situation.  And  I  cannot  see  you 
again. " 

She  buried  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  as  her 
whole  body  shook  in  the  grip  of  her  great  emo 
tion. 

This  was  life! 


THE    RENUNCIATION       217 

m 

At  first  Clifton  was  too  stunned  to  speak. 
He  could  only  hold  his  love  as  she  lay  in  his 
arms,  convulsively  wracked  by  great  silent,  tear 
less  sobs  of  grief. 

He  looked  down  at  her — at  first  pityingly, 
then  wonderingly,  then  passionately. 

He  had  loved  her!  God!  he  had  loved  her 
so  much,  and  planned  for  her,  and  waited  for 
her — only  for  this! 

It  was  madness,  some  distorted  idea  of  con 
science  which  love's  ardor,  love's  unyielding 
demand  could  disperse. 

He  would  lift  her  face  to  his  and  cover  her 
lips  with  kisses  and  crush  her  slim,  girlish  form 
to  his  heart,  and  then  all  those  fantastic  su 
perstitions  would  be  dispelled.  Such  were 
the  thoughts  that  came  crowding  into  his 
brain. 

"You  are  saying  what  you  don't  mean,  my 
dear!"  he  cried.  "This  is  just  a  nervous  col 
lapse.  You  have  been  under  too  great  a  strain. 


218    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

Our  love  is  too  real  and  close  a  thing  for  you 
to  let  it  go  by  for  the  sake  of  some  mythical 
ghost  of  honor.  Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!"  And 
with  the  last  call  upon  her  name,  his  arms 
opened  and  then  closed  more  firmly  around  the 
slim  grace  of  her  girlish  figure,  while  hungrily, 
eagerly,  insistently  his  lips  sought  to  find  her 
own. 

He  would  not  be  cheated  out  of  the  woman 
whom  he  wanted,  and  longed  for,  and  loved. 

"Darling!  darling!"  Twice  he  said  it,  then 
the  search  for  her  lips  was  over.  He  had  found 
that  little  mouth  that  had  so  often  returned  the 
pressure  of  his — he  would  kiss  her  now,  again 
and  again  and  again — until  .  .  . 

"You  will  never  kiss  me  again,"  she  said. 
1 '  These  few  days  I  have  been  half  mad,  and  now 
I  am  sane — or  perhaps  it  may  be  that  I  have 
been  sane  and  now  I  am  half  mad!  I  don't 
know  which  way  it  is — I  only  know  that  I  want 
you  to  forgive  me!" 

"Forgive  you!  forgive  you!"  said  Craig 
gently.  "My  darling!  there  is  nothing  to  for- 


THE    RENUNCIATION       219 

give."  He  patted  her  shoulder  soothingly. 
"Don't  feel  badly,"  he  whispered.  Though 
there  be  none  to  hear,  that  is  ever  a  lover's  way. 
"You've  been  too  much  alone  to-day,"  he  con 
tinued.  "But  thank  God  I'll  always  be  near 
you  now,  to  comfort  you  when  you're  sad  and 
troubled,  and  to  rejoice  with  you  when  you're 
happy." 

"No!  no!"  she  answered.  "That  can  never 
be,  Craig.  I've  thought  it  all  out,  alone,  and 
I  know  that  if  I  forsook  my  duty  I  should  know 
nothing  but  remorse  my  life  long.  Oh!  it's 
hard !  hard !  But  I  was  brought  into  the  world 
for  this  purpose.  It  was  written  down  in  the 
book  of  life  that  I  should  marry  Ralph.  If  I 
ever  find  happiness,  it  must  be  with  him." 

Craig  found  himself  at  a  loss  for  words.  For 
a  time  he  could  only  try  in  his  man's  way  to 
comfort  her.  He  kissed  her  again  and  again 
and  wished  that  he  might  have  the  good  for 
tune  to  meet  Dunham  as  man  to  man.  For  was 
not  that  devil  the  direct  instrument  of  her  tor 
ture? 


220    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

How  could  he  leave  her  to  endure  the  suffer 
ing  which  he  felt  sure  would  be  her  lot?  Oh !  it 
was  incredible  that  this  was  the  same  bright 
world  of  a  short  half -hour  ago.  Then  the  fresh- 
tinted  day  had  helped  impart  to  him  a  sensation 
of  invigorated  hope.  But  now  a  deep  despair 
came  over  him. 

"How  can  I  leave  you!  How  can  I  leave 
you!'*  he  groaned.  "And  yet  I  cannot  urge 
you  now.  I  know  you  have  been  fighting  this 
battle  with  yourself  all  day." 

"Yes — yes,  and  all  night,  too ! "  she  said  sadly. 
"And  sometimes  my  longing  to  be  with  you  al 
most  made  me  belittle  every  consideration  ex 
cept  our  happiness — yours  and  mine.  But  in 
the  end  I  saw  it  all  clearly.  I'll  always  thank 
God  that  I  saw  in  time." 

He  was  looking  at  her  sadly.  There  seemed 
so  much  of  tender,  sweet,  beautiful  womanhood 
being  wasted  here.  A  divine  friend,  a  perfect 
wife,  an  ideal  mother!  How  exquisitely  she 
would  grace  any  of  these  roles ! 

But  he  knew  now — alas!  that  he  would  play 


THE    RENUNCIATION       221 

no  further  part  upon  her  stage  of  life.  Their 
too  short  drama  was  almost  at  an  end. 

"Craig!"  she  asked,  "will  you  always  re 
member  me?" 

"Always — always — how  could  I  ever  forget 
you?"  was  his  half -questioning  answer. 

She  clung  to  him  with  all  the  fictitious 
strength  of  her  despair. 

"We  must  not  meet  each  other  again,"  she 
told  him  tearfully.  "You  must  not  venture 
near  me.  I  do  not  know  how  strong  I  am.  I 
dare  not  see  you,  Craig.  I  could  never  again 
fight  as  I  have  fought  against  myself.  So 
you  must  be  brave  for  both  of  us.  You 
must  be  steadfast.  No  matter  how  clear 
the  call  to  come,  you  must  shut  your  ears  to 
it. 

"And,  oh!  Craig — don't  forget  me  too  soon! 
I  know  you  will  always  keep  a  place  for  me  in 
your  heart;  but  you  are  young — and  one  day 
some  sweet  girl  will  help  you  to  forget  this  pain. 
I  hate  the  thought — and  yet  I  would  not  have  it 
otherwise." 


222    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

So  it  was  finished  between  those  two  sad 
young  lovers. 

"You  must  go — you  must  go  now!"  she  said. 
"Don't  make  it  harder  for  me.'7 

And  that  appeal  persuaded  Clifton  as  no  other 
could  have.  Make  it  harder  for  her!  Did  he 
not  desire  passionately  to  make  all  things  easy 
for  her !  Was  it  not  his  dearest  wish  to  antici 
pate  her  every  want — and  to  relieve  her  of  all 
her  burdens?  To  make  the  rough  places 
smooth?  Should  he  then  fail  her  in  this  one — 
the  only — thing  he  could  do  to  lessen  her 
present  anxiety? 

"My  dear!"  he  murmured,  "I  yield  to  your 
will.  But  I  cannot  think  that  we'll  not  meet 
again."  And  he  looked  at  her  still  hopefully. 

But  Elizabeth  felt  with  an  immense  convic 
tion  that  she  would  never  see  him  again. 

IV 

Down  the  Avenue  Clifton  rode.  But  all  his 
thoughts  were  of  his  love.  He  had  left  his 
heart  behind  him.  And  every  instant  he  was 


THE    RENUNCIATION      223 

being  borne  further  and  further  away  from  that 
which  was  dearest  to  him. 

There  was  something  depressing  in  the 
cavern-like,  deserted  street,  which  stretched 
away  ahead  of  him  like  some  yawning  gorge, 
with  its  great  cliffs — in  the  shape  of  lofty  build 
ings — hanging  threateningly  over  him. 

He  wondered  when  he  should  see  his  Elizabeth 
again.  For  in  his  heart  all  hope  was  not  yet 
dead.  Optimism  is  too  essentially  a  part  of  the 
philosophy  of  youth  to  be  entirely  stifled.  It 
is  only  long  experience  of  life  that  permits  us 
to  recognize  defeat.  Resignation  comes  only  in 
the  wake  of  many  disappointments. 

And  to  Craig  Clifton  this  was  the  first  inti 
mation  that  man  is  not  always  master  of  his 
fate.  It  was  his  first  taste  of  the  bitterness  of 
the  inevitable. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HOMING  TOGETHER 
I 

AFTER  Clifton  had  left  her,  Elizabeth  felt  that 
she  must  die  of  grief.  But  she  had  no  thought 
of  turning  back.  She  had  determined  upon  her 
course  and  the  way  lay  before  her. 

In  the  oppressive  silence  of  the  deserted  man 
sion  she  went  quietly  about  her  duty — as  she 
saw  it — the  removal  of  every  visible  trace  of 
her  affair  with  Clifton. 

Alone  in  her  boudoir  she  unlocked  her  desk 
and  drew  forth  a  packet  of  letters,  Craig's  let 
ters,  which  she  had  carefully  preserved.  Each 
one  she  read  many  times.  As  she  touched  them 
they  seemed  a  part  of  him  and  she  felt  that  he 
was  near.  Except  for  a  few  small  trinkets  that 
he  had  given  her  they  were  the  only  tangible 
tokens  she  had  which  had  come  from  him.  One 

224 


HOMING   TOGETHER       225 

by  one  she  tore  them  relentlessly  into  bits, 
though  every  tear  through  the  crisp  paper  was 
like  a  rending  of  her  own  heart-strings. 

If  she  found  the  ordeal  a  painful  one,  how 
much  more  difficult  would  be  the  task  of  eradi 
cating  those  more  lasting — though  impalpable 
— mementoes  of  the  soul !  She  feared  that  the 
feat  would  be  impossible.  And  yet  she  knew 
in  her  heart  that  it  was  better  that  she  had  sent 
Clifton  away.  It  was  hard,  and  it  would  yet 
be  even  harder — the  existence  that  confronted 
her.  But  if  she  could  not  endure  it  she  reflected 
sadly  that,  after  all,  she  could  not  live  forever. 

She  had  nearly  finished  destroying  the  letters 
when,  as  she  picked  up  one  of  the  few  that  re 
mained,  a  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor.  Craig's 
photograph !  It  was  just  a  little  picture,  taken 
by  some  amateur,  but  Elizabeth  held  it  as  if  it 
were  a  priceless  miniature  done  by  some  great 
artist.  The  little  informal  portrait  brought  to 
her  a  sense  of  intimacy  with  him, — it  conveyed 
to  her  a  feeling  of  his  reality. 

Sadly  then  she  rent  the  small  photograph  in 


226    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

twain  and  dropped  the  pieces  into  the  basket 
which  was  now  brimming  with  the  fragments  of 
Clifton's  letters.  To  it  were  soon  added  the 
remainder  of  the  missives  and  then,  hastily 
gathering  tip  the  small  remembrances  that  he 
had  given  her,  she  cast  them  into  the  mass  of 
torn  paper. 

Once  the  thing  was  accomplished  she  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief;  and  ringing  for  a  maid  Eliza 
beth  directed  her  to  remove  the  basket.  As  the 
door  closed  behind  the  servant,  the  immense 
silence  of  the  spacious  room  filled  Elizabeth 
Dunham  with  a  curious  feeling  of  oppression. 
The  afternoon  was  waning  and  a  summer 
thunder-storm  had  overcast  the  sky  with  a  pall 
of  darkness  which  cut  off  the  slanting  rays  of 
the  sinking  sun  and  transformed  the  big  room 
to  a  place  of  vague  shapes,  of  dim  outlines  and 
deep  shadows.  Perhaps  that  change  worked 
subtly  upon  her  overwrought  nerves.  At  all 
events,  she  felt  an  eerie  foreboding  in  the  som 
ber  quiet  and  experienced  a  strange  sense  of 
loneliness.  She  was  conscious  all  at  once  of  a 


HOMING    TOGETHER       227 

great  need  of  companionship,  of  the  definite 
nearness  of  some  human  being. 

n 

Just  before  dinner  Ralph  Dunham  pushed  his 
doorbell  and  entered  his  house.  The  butler, 
who  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  his  summons, 
was  not  a  little  surprised  at  his  master's  un 
expected  return,  though  he  was  too  well  trained 
a  servant  to  evidence  any  astonishment. 

Elizabeth,  too,  was  startled  when  she  heard 
her  husband's  voice  in  the  hall  outside.  And  to 
her  amazement  it  gave  her  an  unmistakable 
feeling  of  relief  to  know  that  Ralph  was  there. 

Such  is  the  Almighty's  method  of  working  out 
His  decreed  order  of  events. 

Ralph  Biunham  entered  his  bedroom  with  a 
heavy  step.  He  was  unutterably  weary ;  and  he 
felt  terribly  a'lone.  Yet  he  could  not  think  of  a 
single  soul  on  earth — except  one — with  whom  he 
wished  to  be.  If  he  could  see  Elizabeth — if  he 
could  but  look  at  her,  to  watch  the  play  of  ex 
pression  upon  her  sweet  face  and  drink  in  her 


228    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

cool  beauty  with  his  thirsty  eyes  he  felt  that  he 
might  feel  refreshed.  He  sighed  deeply  as  he 
thought  of  her  loveliness  and  realized  that  even 
to  regard  it  was  torture — an  exquisite  agony. 

The  small  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece  struck 
seven.  At  the  sound,  force  of  habit  made  him 
think  of  dinner.  Where  should  he  dine?  He 
knew  that  if  he  went  to  one  of  his  clubs  he  would 
find  a  few  stragglers  there — other  unfortunates 
who  were  detained  in  town.  He  did  not  want 
to  meet  them.  In  the  whole  city  there  was  no 
one  whom  he  wished  to  see.  And  as  he 
pondered  upon  his  loneliness  the  desolation  of 
the  empty  house  weighed  down  upon  him  griev 
ously.  Was  there  no  friend  to  come  to  his 
relief?  No  one  to  rescue  him  from  himself? 

Dunham  was  standing  before  a  high  chest — 
a  huge,  antique  piece  which  contained  many 
drawers.  Something  moved  him  suddenly  to 
reach  out  his  hand  and  open  one  of  them.  The 
impulse  was  like  the  prompting  of  some  evil 
genius.  Before  his  eyes  the  old-fashioned  chest 
revealed  a  revolver,  a  wicked-looking  arm  which 


HOMING    TOGETHER       229 

lay  there  fully  loaded,  ready  at  his  bidding  to 
release  its  six  messengers  of  death. 

He  lifted  the  weapon  from  its  resting  place. 
The  stock  nestled  closely  in  his  palm  and  his 
fingers  closed  about  it  in  an  answering  caress. 
Here  was  a  friend!  Here  was  a  friend  with  a 
remedy  for  his  despondency.  He  looked  down 
curiously  at  the  sleek  blueness  of  the  revolver. 
The  room  was  very  still,  and  a  sudden  desire 
came  to  him  to  interrupt  the  silence  with  a  shot. 
Slowly  he  raised  the  weapon  and  placed  the 
barrel  to  his  head.  He  held  the  muzzle  close 
against  his  hot  skin  while  his  finger  curled  know 
ingly  about  the  trigger.  One  quick  pull  and 
the  thing  would  be  accomplished !  He  wondered 
if  he  would  hear  the  report.  Or  would  the  bul 
let,  crashing  into  his  brain,  silence  his  ears  even 
before  the  roar  of  the  explosion  reached  them? 

There  was  something  seductively  suggestive 
of  repose  in  the  cold  steel  pressing  against  his 
temple.  Just  one  slight  pull  and  that  repose 
would  be  his !  No  one  could  take  it  from  him. 
He  could  see  the  doctors  bending  over  him  and 


230    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

listening  for  his  heart-beat,  listening  in  vain. 
He  could  smell  the  choking  fumes  of  the  powder 
in  the  room.  He  could  hear  the  newsboys  cry 
ing  their  extras  in  the  streets  outside — "All 
about  Ralph  Dunham!  Suioide!  Suicide!  Ex 
tra!  Extra!'' 

He  thought  of  the  flurry  in  the  market  the 
next  morning.  There  would  be  a  quick  drop 
in  the  Dunham  stocks,  so-called.  Some  people 
would  be  ruined.  But  after  a  little  things  would 
readjust  themselves  and  he  reflected  bitterly 
that  the  world  would  go  on  as  before.  It  would 
go  on  as  if  he  had  never  lived  in  it. 

What  was  that?  He  started  suddenly.  A 
tap  on  his  door?  He  dropped  the  revolver  into 
its  receptacle  and  shut  the  drawer  with  a  slam. 

"Well?"  he  called. 

The  door  opened  softly.  It  was  a  servant, 
who  first  begged  his  pardon  for  disturbing  him, 
and  then  told  him  that  Mrs.  Dunham  was  in  the 
house.  "She  wants  to  know  if  you  are  dining 
at  home,  sir?"  the  man  said. 

Hope  springs  eternal.    Dunham  started  at 


HOMING    TOGETHER       231 

the  question.  Elizabeth!  "What  did  it 
mean? 

"Tell her 'Yes!' "he  said. 

But  when  the  man  had  closed  the  door  quietly 
behind  him  Dunham  told  himself  fiercely  that 
he  was  a  fool.  He  was  a  fool  to  think  even  for 
a  moment  that  things  could  be  any  different. 
He  cursed  himself  for  a  coward  because  he  had 
not  ended  his  life.  And  the  next  instant  a  cold 
sweat  stood  out  upon  his  forehead  as  he  realized 
how  close  he  had  been  to  death. 

Somehow  he  did  not  want  to  die — not  yet. 

in 

That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months, 
Dunham  found  himself  facing  his  wife  alone 
across  the  dinner-table.  To  him  there  was  some 
thing  oddly  unreal  in  the  situation.  He  had 
great  difficulty  in  persuading  himself  that  he 
was  not  imagining  the  event,  for  Elizabeth  made 
obvious  overtures  toward  friendliness.  He  was 
astounded  by  the  change  that  had  come  over 
her;  and  for  a  brief  interval  he  forgot  every- 


232    WHOSO   FINDETH    A   WIFE 

thing  of  the  agony  he  had  suffered  because  he 
was  supremely  happy. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  bliss  a  horrid  idea 
came  into  his  head.  He  had  been  wondering 
what  brought  his  wife  to  town  at  that  season; 
and  then  all  at  once  he  thought  of  Clifton.  Had 
she  come  to  New  York  to  see  him  f  Dunham  felt 
a  sharp  pang  as  the  suspicion  entered  his  mind. 
But  try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  rid  himself 
of  the  conjecture.  Although  he  despised  him 
self  for  distrusting  Elizabeth,  he  could  not  shake 
off  the  fear  that  she  was  hoodwinking  him. 

She  was  young,  he  reflected,  and  it  was  only 
natural  that  she  should  turn  instinctively  to 
youth.  He  looked  at  her  fresh  skin  and  was 
conscious  of  the  contrast  that  it  made  with  his 
own  face,  lined  with  the  record  of  a  life-time  of 
struggle.  He  could  remember  Clifton  as  he  had 
last  seen  him — eager,  buoyant,  debonair.  And 
Dunham  did  not  marvel  that  Elizabeth  found 
her  lover  far  preferable  to  himself. 

But  despite  his  misgivings  Dunham  was  to 
Elizabeth  as  the  moth  to  the  flame.  He  ac- 


233 

cepted  gratefully  the  favors  that  she  bestowed 
upon  him  that  evening,  torn  though  he  was  by 
the  doubts  that  assailed  him. 

IV 

Weeks  went  by.  And  still  Elizabeth  con 
tinued  to  grace  her  husband's  house  with  her 
cheerful  presence.  She  was  strangely  altered. 
Her  spirits  had  undergone  a  marvelous  change 
which  was  apparent  not  only  in  her  mood  but 
in  her  appearance  as  well.  Her  eyes  were 
brighter,  her  cheeks  displayed  a  higher  color; 
even  her  voice  was  pitched  in  a  different  key. 

Dunham  recognized  the  transformation  in 
her.  She  was  lovelier  than  ever.  But  he  was 
utterly  at  a  loss  for  an  explanation  of  the  dif 
ference  in  her.  "What  was  the  answer  to  the  rid 
dle?  Was  it  to  be  found  in  Clifton?  He  did 
not  know.  He  was  completely  puzzled.  For 
Clifton  no  longer  visited  them.  Nor  was  he 
present  at  any  of  the  houses  of  the  Dunhams' 
friends.  Ralph  was  at  a  loss  to  solve  the  prob 
lem.  And  then  one  day  he  came  across  Clifton 's 


234    WHOSO   FINDETH    A   WIFE 

name  in  the  cable-columns  of  a  newspaper, 
which  mentioned  the  man  as  among  guests  at  a 
European  resort.  So  that  was  the  reason  for 
Clifton's  absence!  It  did  not  occur  to  Dun 
ham  that  there  had  been  any  break  between  his 
wife  and  her  admirer.  And  in  his  harassed 
state  of  mind  Dunham  was  plunged  again  into 
the  depths  of  despondency. 

Still  Elizabeth  continued  to  seek  his  society. 
She  arranged  week-end  parties  at  The  Knolls 
at  which  she  insisted  upon  her  husband  being 
present.  She  organized  short  cruises  on  the 
Nomad  to  take  place  at  times  convenient  to  Dun 
ham.  And  to  his  complete  bewilderment  she 
even  asked  him  to  accompany  her  upon  motor 
trips. 

It  was  all  a  mystery  to  him.  Her  actions 
were  quite  beyond  his  comprehension.  She  no 
longer  shrank  from  contact  with  him.  Indeed 
the  tables  seemed  to  have  turned  completely. 
Now  it  was  Dunham  who  avoided  her.  If  she 
brushed  against  him,  he  drew  away  from  her. 
If  she  looked  into  his  face  when  speaking  to  him, 


HOMING    TOGETHER       235 

his  own  eyes  quickly  shifted  under  her  gaze. 
He  never  voluntarily  sought  her  companion 
ship  ;  never  suggested  any  project  which  would 
bring  the  two  of  them  together.  He  was  blind 
— absolutely  blind — to  the  great  fact  that  his 
wife's  sentiments  toward  him  had  undergone 
an  amazing  change.  Had  he  been  aware  of  the 
truth  he  could  scarcely  have  marveled  more  than 
did  Elizabeth  herself. 

For  she  had  proved  the  wisdom  of  Thomas 
Cartwright's  words. 

When  the  old  minister  revealed  his  magic 
formula  to  her  she  had  been  skeptical.  But  she 
had  done  his  bidding.  At  first  she  had  to  steel 
herself  to  the  line  of  conduct  she  was  resolved 
to  follow.  But  to  her  great  astonishment  it 
was  not  long  before  she  came  to  regard  her  hus 
band  in  a  new  light.  She  saw  fine  qualities  in 
him  that  she  had  not  discerned  before.  And  his 
faults — which  previously  had  loomed  big  in  her 
eyes — now  dwindled  into  insignificance. 

As  the  weeks  sped  by  (they  passed  quickly 
for  her  now — now  that  she  had  thrown  her  heart 


236    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

into  the  performance  of  her  duty)  she  found! 
that  her  undertaking  grew  increasingly  easier. 
And  eventually  the  time  came  when  she  did  not 
need  to  spur  herself  to  her  task.  She  instinc 
tively  sought  her  husband's  society,  because  it 
had  become  desirable  to  her.  And  one  day  she 
discovered  that  she  loved  him. 

v 

It  came  about  in  this  fashion.  Ealph  Dun 
ham — master  of  men  that  he  was,  because  he 
understood  them,  because  he  knew  their  virtues 
and  their  foibles — was  woefully  unable  to 
fathom  the  minds  of  women.  Least  of  all  could 
he  comprehend  the  actions  of  his  own  wife.  He 
was  puzzled  by  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  capri- 
ciousness  on  her  part.  Or  was  Elizabeth's  al 
tered  demeanor  deliberately  planned  to  deceive 
him?  He  could  guess  nothing  of  her  motives. 
The  more  he  tried  to  determine  what  he  really 
thought  about  her  the  more  undecided  he  be 
came.  And  if  now  and  then  he  seized  upon  the 


HOMING    TOGETHER       237 

temporary  hope  that  she  really  cared  for  him, 
he  was  prompt  to  discard  it  as  preposterous. 

The  man  lived  in  a  veritable  hell  of  doubts 
and  fears.  What  could  he  do  to  relieve  the  an 
guish  that  was  gnawing  his  very  heart  out? 
In  his  despair  he  went  to  a  doctor  and  asked 
for  some  sedative  which  might  at  least  enable 
him  to  sleep. 

It  was  some  simple  drug  that  the  physican 
gave  him — a  mild  bromide,  which  had  no  more 
effect  upon  his  frayed  nerves  than  so  much 
water.  For  three  nights  Dunham  took  the  po 
tion,  and  tossed  wakefully  upon  his  bed  through 
hours  that  seemed  interminable. 

The  fourth  night,  at  bedtime,  he  pitched  the 
powders  away  in  disgust.  And  he  thought 
grimly  of  that  other  remedy  which  lay  in  the 
little  drawer.  That,  he  knew,  was  a  cure  that 
would  not  fail  him. 

He  crossed  the  room  to  the  big  chest  and 
looked  at  the  drawer.  The  thing  had  a  power 
ful  fascination  for  him.  His  hand  stole  out 


238    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

and  closed  upon  the  crystal  knob.    And  slowly 
he  pulled  the  drawer  open. 

Something  stirred  gently  in  the  room.  It 
sounded  like  a  soft  foot-fall  behind  him;  and 
with  a  start  Dunham  wheeled  around. 

It  was  Elizabeth.  A  peignoir  of  filmy  silk 
clung  about  her  and  only  partially  concealed  the 
snowy  lingerie  beneath.  He  could  scarcely  be 
lieve  his  eyes.  She  had  never  come  to  him  like 
that  before. 

There  was  that  in  her  husband's  face  which 
alarmed  her.  On  it  was  written  deep  despair 
— unfathomable  despondency.  And  there  was 
a  strained  look  about  the  eyes — a  tenseness 
which  both  shocked  and  terrified  her. 

"What  is  it?"  Elizabeth  asked  him. 
"There's — there's  some  trouble.  I  can  feel  it. 
Tell  me!" 

But  he  only  stared  at  her  and  did  not  speak. 

She  moved  nearer  him  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  sleeve. 

1 1  Ralph ! "  she  said.  ' '  You  frighten  me.  Oh ! 
what  is  the  matter?" 


HOMING    TOGETHER       239 

" Nothing  you  can  help,"  he  answered,  not 
unkindly. 

" Perhaps  I  can,"  she  said.  "Let  me  try — 
at  least  let  me  try."  She  looked  beyond  him 
then  and  saw  the  revolver  lying  in  the  open 
drawer. 

' '  Ralph !  What  are  you  doing  with  that  ? ' '  she 
asked  quickly,  as  an  awful  fear  swept  over  her. 
"You  weren't — "  She  could  not  finish  her 
question.  Her  tongue  balked  at  the  horrid 
words. 

Dunham's  glance  fell  away  beneath  her 
searching  gaze. 

"You  were — oh!  God!"  she  cried.  And  she 
threw  her  arms  about  him  protectingly. 

"Don't!"  he  begged  hoarsely.  "Go  away, 
please.  It's — it's  nothing.  Don't  be  fright 
ened.  ' ' 

But  her  woman's  instinctive  perception  told 
her  the  truth.  'He  could  not  deceive  her. 

"  No !  no ! "  she  said  hysterically.  ' '  I— I  can 't 
go.  Not  just  yet.  Don't  send  me  away. 
Please!" 


240    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

Kalph  Dunham  looked  down  at  her  as  sobs 
interrupted  her  impassioned  pleading,  and  he 
saw  that  she  had  guessed  the  truth. 

' '  Forgive  me, '  '  he  said  with  terrible  calm.  '  *  I 
am  sorry  if  I  startled  you.  But  it's  all  right 
now.  Please  go  away.'*  He  tried  to  free  him 
self  from  her  arms.  " There!  there!"  he  said. 
"Please!  Don't  make  me  hurt  you!  But  you 
really  must  go  now.  I — I  can 't  bear  any  more. ' ' 
He  was  free  at  last  from  her  embrace. 

"I  can't  leave  you,"  she  cried.  And  she 
caught  his  arm  again  and  clung  to  him  des 
perately.  "One  minute!  Let  me  stay — just  a 
minute!" 

"Well?"  He  waited  for  her  to  continue. 
There  was  nothing — absolutely  nothing — that 
he  could  say  to  her. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  she  begged  him.  "You 
— you  were  going  to  do  an  awful  thing.  I  knew 
there  was  something  frightful,  when  you  looked 
around  at  me.  And  when  I  saw  that — "  she 
shuddered  as  she  peered  at  the  big,  blue  revol 
ver — "I  knew  what  you  meant  to  do.  But  it 


HOMING    TOGETHER       241 

can't  be  bad  enough  for  that.  Talk  to  me, 
Ealph!  Say  something!  I'm  your  wife.  I'm 
the  very  one  you  ought  to  come  to  when  you're 
in  trouble.  You  ought  to  come  to  me  for  com 
fort.  Oh,  Ealph!  I've  been  a  wicked  woman. 
But  I've  changed.  God  has  helped  me.  I'm 
wicked  still,  I  suppose.  And  I  guess  I  deserve 
any  sorrow  that  might  come  to  me.  But  I 
couldn't  stand  it  if  I  lost  you  now." 

Dunham  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  half -dazed  by 
what  she  was  saying.  "I  didn't  think  you 
would  care — what  happened  to  me.  I  thought 
you  would  be  glad — to  be  set  free." 

' '  Glad  ? ' '  she  exclaimed. 

He  nodded  gravely. 

"Then  you  could  marry  the  man  you  love. 
You  could  marry — Clifton." 

She  smiled  at  him  through  tears  that  trembled 
in  her  eyes. 

'  '  You  don 't  understand, '  *  she  said.  '  *  Listen ! 
I  haven't  seen  Craig  Clifton  for  months.  I 
haven't  heard  from  him.  I  don't  even  know 


242    WHOSO    FINDETH    A   WIFE 

where  he  is.  I  sent  him  away.  I  told  him  he 
must  never  see  me  again.  Oh!  haven't  you 
seen?  Haven't  you  known  all  this  time?  I 
love  you,  Ealph!  Don't  tell  me  it's  too  late!" 

She  clung  to  him  desperately  now,  as  if  she 
feared  that  something  would  snatch  him  away 
from  her.  Dunham  felt  an  exquisite  thrill  as 
her  slender  form  pressed  close  against  him. 
Her  dear  face  was  upturned  to  his ;  and  her  eyes 
besought  him  for  the  answer  that  she  craved — 
yet  feared  he  could  not  give  her. 

The  miracle  had  happened.  The  thing  he 
had  hoped  for  in  time  gone  by,  and  had  relin 
quished  as  beyond  the  realm  of  possibility,  had 
come  to  pass.  As  the  light  broke  over  him 
Ealph  Dunham  gave  a  great  sob  and  gathered 
her  inside  his  arms. 

The  blessed  love  which  is  every  man's  heri 
tage  had  finally  come  to  him. 

VI 

And  so  gladly  she  went  to  him,  because  he 
was  her  lover.  And  so  joyously  he  welcomed 


HOMING    TOGETHER       243 

her  because  she  was  his  beloved!  So  joyously 
that  he  bent  down  to  her  and  kissed  her  sweet 
lips.  And  with  her  two  hands  clasped  in  his 
he  led  her  from  the  room — away  from  that  place 
where  but  for  the  grace  of  God  he  might  have 
been  lying  at  that  very  moment,  beyond  all  ca 
pacity  for  sorrow  or  joy. 

Dunham  looked  at  her  very  fondly  and  very 
tenderly,  in  the  sacred  silence  of  her  bedroom. 
He  saw  her  quite  distinctly,  for  his  eyes  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  subdued  light,  and  to 
his  wonder  she  looked  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
He  had  not  thought  it  possible.  With  her  soft 
pale  skin,  and  her  amazing  eyes,  and  the  child 
ish  slimness  of  her  figure,  combined  with  certain 
curves  that  were  the  curves  of  ripening  woman 
hood — nobody  since  time  began  had  ever  been 
quite  like  her,  and — and  Dunham  desired  in 
tensely  that  she  should  belong  to  him. 

But  in  humble  deference  to  her  will — for  was 
he  not  her  devoted  knight — her  humble  subject 
— waiting  in  the  court  of  love?  in  his  great  de 
sire  to  do  her  bidding  he  merely  sought  one  of 


244    WHOSO    FINDETH    A    WIFE 

her  slim  hands  and  led  her  reverently  to  a  deep, 
wide  couch  that  filled  one  of  the  corners  of  the 
room. 

Her  eyes  were  wider  open,  less  shadowed  and 
more  full  of  courage,  and  in  some  strange  way 
struck  him  as  even  purer  than  they  had  been  be 
fore.  They  had  been  timidly  pure,  now  they 
were  bravely  pure. 

Her  lips  seemed  fuller  and  softer,  and  with 
out  that  demure  compression  at  the  corners, 
which  so  often  mars  the  beauty  of  women. 

And  her  smile — ah!  now  she  was  ready  to 
smile — to  smile  gaily,  tenderly,  sweetly,  hap 
pily,  simply,  because  she  was  at  last  in  intimate 
touch  with  humanity,  through  him. 

Yes,  humanity  was  now  her  kinswoman.  She 
could  weep  for  the  tears  of  those  who  wept, 
she  could  rejoice  with  the  gladness  of  those  who 
were  joyous. 

Birth,  death,  life — she  seemed  to  understand 
them  all  at  last,  to  marvel  at  their  greatness, 
to  comprehend  their  infinite  wonder. 


HOMING   TOGETHER       245 

She  had  a  woman's  heart,  and  to  all  the  world 
she  was  now  able  to  stretch  out  a  woman's 
hands.  Things  which  had  previously  appeared 
uninteresting  and  barren  were,  for  her,  invested 
with  actual  fairness  and  grace,  and  her  pulse 
beat  time  with  humanity's  pulse  as  the  soul  of 
a  perfect  dancer  throbs  in  time  to  the  lilt  of  the 
music. 

She  put  her  hand  out  and  touched  Dunham's. 
How  strong  and  capable  it  was!  No  dream- 
lover  of  her  girlhood  days  had  ever  caressed  her 
with  a  hand  comparable  to  his! 

"Oh,  beloved!"  she  whispered.  "All  these 
weeks  I  have  longed  to  be  here  with  you,  away 
from  the  world,  and  all  the  ugly  things  in 
it" 

Dunham  felt  a  strange  elation  of  spirit. 

She  seemed  so  very  different  from  other 
women — (it's  true  she  was  sweet  and  dainty  and 
like  a  thousand  others  who  are  fragrant  and 
fair  as  flowers — but  love's  fallacious  beliefs  be 
gin  at  the  hour  of  love's  birth!)  there  was  an 


246    WHOSO   FINDETH   A   WIFE 

air  of  unconscious  appeal  about  her  which  de 
mands  masculine  protection,  and  that  air  of  in 
tense  magnetic  femininity  which  compels  mascu 
line  ardor  and  passion. 

"I  love  you — I  love  you!"  he  murmured. 
And  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips  he  kissed  it  with 
all  the  fervor  of  his  limitless  adoration. 

He  was  created  to  love  this  slim  young  girl 
in  blue — to  love  her  as  a  man  never  loves  in 
his  flirtations  or  his  amours,  because  he  could 
only  love  her  as  the  one  woman  who  seemed 
different  from  all  the  others. 

He  felt  all  this  vaguely — though  his  thoughts 
came  crowding  too  tumultuously  one  upon  an 
other  for  him  to  think  with  his  accustomed  clear 
ness. 

He  only  knew  that  she  was  Queen-Empress 
of  that  whole  world  that  is  peopled  with  lovers 
—that  mystical,  mythical,  realm  of  delight  called 
1  'The  Land  of  Heart's  Joy." 

"I  love  you— I  love  you!"  He  repeated  the 
words  with  a  fierce  intensity.  "Tell  me  you 
love  me!"  and  command  and  entreaty  mingled 


HOMING   TOGETHER       247 

strangely  in  his  clear,  strong  voice,  now  so  curi 
ously  shaken. 

"Yes — yes — "  she  answered  softly  and 
vaguely  as  the  crush  of  his  arms  closed  about 
her  inevitably,  and  held  her  a  prisoner. 

"Yes — yes — "  Elizabeth  answered  again. 
There  was  nothing  else  that  she  could,  or  needed, 
to  say. 

And  her  mouth  and  her  husband's  met  in  one 
long  kiss. 

Ah!  that  kiss  was  a  beautiful  kiss! 

And  for  a  time  she  lay  passive  in  his  arms. 

Such  strong,  strong  arms  they  were! — arms 
strong  enough  to  be  cruel  if  they  were  not  pas 
sionately  kind  instead. 

"We  were  made  for  each  other,  weren't  we, 
darling?  We  are  the  only  two  people  in  our 
world,  to-night,  aren't  we?"  And  Dunham 
held  her  yielding  body  close ;  her  slim,  lithe,  sup 
ple  form — half -real,  half-sprite  she  seemed,  in 
the  faint  light  of  the  quiet  room. 

As  he  looked  at  her,  he  more  than  ever  realized 
the  completeness  of  her  charm. 


248    WHOSO    FINDETH   A   WIFE 

She  was  a  woman,  a  woman  with  fervid  throb 
bing  pulses,  lawful  desires,  passionate  tremors. 
And  he  caressed  her  with  a  fierce  tenderness. 


THE   END 


In  the  Fall  of  1914  The  Macaulay  Company 

will  publish  a  rousing  novel   of  love 

and  adventure  in  Mexico,  called 

The  Trail  of 
The  Waving  Palm 

by  PAGE  PHILIPS 

author  of  the  novel  "At  Bay" 

^1  Mr.  Philips,  who  is  still  in  Mexico  in  the  interests  of  a 
foreign  newspaper  syndicate  has  written  a  vigorous  story 
which  appeals  powerfully  to  human  hearts  and  sympathies) 
with  plenty  of  good  fighting  and  brisk  wooing  on  the  part 
of  its  American  hero. 

^1  Readers  and  critics  everywhere  have  set  their  stamp  of 
approval  on  this  new  author's  first  novel,  "At  Bay,"  which 
was  based  on  George  Scarborough's  secret  service  play. 
The  following  opinion  of  the  literary  critic  on  The  Los 
Angeles  Times  is  only  one  example  of  the  widespread  and 
instant  recognition  of  Page  Philips'  power  as  a  story-teller. 

*I  '•'•Page  Philips  has  novelized  "At  Bay'  with  much 
greater  success  than  marks  any  other  novelized  drama 
which  has  come  into  the  present  reviewer's  hands.  It  has 
escaped  the  halting  quality,  the  abruptness,  the  lack  of 
literary  unity  which  marks  the  majority  of  the  others." 


If  you  are  interested  in   reading  the   best   of 

the  season's  fiction,  you  will  want  a  copy 

of  this  captivating  out-of-doors  story 

The  Trail  of 
The  Waving  Palm 


*I  To  all  who  have  an  affection  for  the  open,  and  for  whom 
the  out-of-the-way  corners  of  the  earth  have  a  fascination, 
the  book  offers  a  genuine  treat.  It  gives  a  wonderfully 
vivid  idea  of  the  risks  of  life  in  barbarous  Mexico.  Mr. 
Philips  has  gone  about  the  country  with  his  eyes  open  and 
he  has  found  lying  ready  for  his  use  an  abundance  of 
material  which  needed  only  the  powers  of  a  raconteur  to 
capture  its  glamour  and  place  it  within  the  covers  of  a  book. 

^1  Its  pages  are  alive  with  real  people- Americans,  Mexicans, 
and  the  host  of  soldiers  of  fortune  from  many  climes  whom 
life  lures  irresistably  south  of  the  Tropic  of  Cancer;  in  fact 
the  enchantment  of  the  sub-tropics  pervades  this  fine, 
open-air  story  from  the  first  chapter  to  the  last. 


-M  __ II II II I  i  ill!! 

A    001  196970    6 


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